


Risk It All

by SlimReaper



Series: Festivals [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Festival of the FIve, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, NYOOOOOOOOOM, Other, Pining, Ratchet is a Trophy Wife, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Use Your Words, dratchet - Freeform, iopele, mention of Blurr/Sunstreaker/Sideswipe, mention of Knockout/Breakdown, nonconsensual crowdsurfing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimReaper/pseuds/SlimReaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every 50 vorns, Transformers throughout the galaxy celebrate the Festival of the Five--a holy celebration dedicated to each of the five gods of the Guiding Hand in turn, and each Festival is kicked off by a Race unique to its patron god. No matter which god is honored, the Victor's Prize remains the same: fame, riches, glory, and most of all, the chance to claim the mate of their choice before all and have their union blessed by the gods. </p><p>Drift has been waiting for what feels like forever for the Festival of Primus to come around again, and now that it has, nothing's going to stop him from winning the Race and the mech he loves. </p><p>The fact that Ratchet has no patience with gods, grand romantic gestures, or damn fools risking their lives is only a slight obstacle, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On Your Mark

“Hey, Ratchet, you busy?”

Ratchet snorted at the question. “I’m always busy, kid,” he said, and it was true. Being Chief Medical Officer meant that he never lacked for tasks needing his urgent attention, and that was even without the current spate of stupid messes coming his way lately. The Festival of the Five wreaked havoc on Cybertron every fifty vorns and Iacon was in an uproar as the city prepared to host the Race of Primus. And that meant that idiots had come from far and wide to compete in the race or watch the festivities.

Or to guzzle cheap high-grade, try to stage their own illegal races on the streets, and either wind up on a slab in one of the many hospitals under Ratchet’s command or cooling their wheels in a cell under Ultra Magnus’ unforgiving supervision. Ratchet wasn’t sure if his medical staff or Ultra Magnus’ law enforcers had it worse during festival-time, but one thing was for sure--all of them had been shortstaffed, overworked, and fed up with all of it long before Optimus Prime was due to declare the official start to the Festival tomorrow.

At least the Race of Primus was the only one of the Festival races that was held in Iacon itself, so Ratchet only had to put up with his home city-state losing its collective sanity every two and a half thousand years or so.

Wasn’t long enough, in his opinion.

Still, he put down the datapad he’d been trying to read--his optics kept crossing with fatigue so he wasn’t getting very far anyway--and looked up at the mech who’d spoken to him. Drift looked distinctly nervous, as though he wasn’t sure if he was going to get something thrown at him for interrupting Ratchet’s work. He hadn’t even fully stepped into the room, instead settling for cautiously poking his helm around the doorframe, and Ratchet sighed and beckoned him in. No matter how much he needed to get some work done, the gorgeous speedster was an infinitely preferable view than the sight of how far behind he was on his paperwork. “Get in here, I’m not gonna throw a datapad at you.”

Drift grinned at him. “No, you prefer to throw wrenches,” he said as he finally walked into the overcrowded office. He punctuated the remark by pointedly rubbing his aft. "And I've had the dents to prove it."

Ratchet snorted again, but this time it was to cover a laugh. “You deserved all of 'em,” he shot back. Drift laughed and Ratchet waved a hand at one of the chairs in front of his heavily burdened desk. “I can give you a minute, but only a minute, I’m afraid. All this stupid Festival slag has us drowning. What do you need?”

Drift didn’t sit down. He stopped behind the chair, resting his hands on the back and shifting from pede to pede nervously. “Actually… I wondered if you could check my engine?” he said as he gave Ratchet that hopeful look that the medic had never had any success in resisting.

Ratchet immediately rose to his own pedes, frowning now. “What’s wrong? Are you running rough? Something giving you pain?” he asked, already popping his forearm cover to release his diagnostic cables as his medical protocols booted up and started analyzing Drift’s movements for spasticity or upset equilibrium, any signs that might indicate a deeper problem.

The speedster shook his head. “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” he hurried to reassure Ratchet. “I just… I need to make sure my engine’s running at peak efficiency, that’s all.”

Ratchet stopped dead. There was only one reason Drift would need that right now. His spark chamber suddenly squeezed down too tight, which was odd because it also abruptly felt empty. His forearm hatch snapped closed. “I don’t have time to give tune-ups, kid,” he growled, already turning away as he waved impatiently at the precariously stacked datapads covering the entire surface of his desk. “I’m swamped. Go see if First Aid can squeeze you in, he’s been doing tune-ups on racers all day.”

Quick footsteps were the only warning Ratchet had before Drift was in front of him again, blocking him from his desk chair. “I already saw him,” Drift said quickly. “I’m not asking you to do the tune-up yourself, I know you’re much too busy for that. I just wondered if you could check me over and make sure everything’s right, that it’s as good as it can be.”

“First Aid’s an excellent medic,” Ratchet replied, wondering if picking Drift up and physically moving him out of his way would put an end to this faster. “If he gave you a tune-up, I’m sure you’re fine.”

“Please, Ratchet,” Drift said softly. Ratchet made the mistake of looking at him and found that imploring, hopeful expression had intensified. He tore his optics away and stared at all the unfinished work on his desk instead, but not before he saw Drift bite his lip and start to reach for him, only to pull his hand back before making contact. “I know you’ve got more important things to do, but it’ll only take a minute and then I swear I’ll go away and leave you alone. Please. I  _need_  this.”

Ratchet groaned but managed to turn it into something that sounded more frustrated than resigned.  _Never could say no to that face,_  he thought again, and rubbed his optics wearily. Of all the things he didn’t want to do… but he owed Drift. The speedster had never once mentioned it and Ratchet couldn’t possibly forget it. “Fine,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge before opening his optics and shifting an armload of datapads into the nearest chair. “Sit up here and open your dataport.”

Relief bled into Drift’s EM field and he carefully perched in the minuscule open space Ratchet had cleared atop his desk. “Thank you,” he murmured as a small panel on his chest armor retracted to expose his dataport, everything in his tone and body language shouting his relief and sincerity. “Really. Thank you for this.”

Ratchet grunted instead of answering. He plugged his diagnostic cable into the appropriate connector and initiated a standard systems check as he began a visual inspection of Drift’s joints. He tapped Drift’s knee. “Show me your range of motion,” he directed, and Drift straightened and flexed his leg. Ratchet nodded and moved to the other side, tapping the other knee without speaking this time. Drift repeated the movement and Ratchet nodded again before moving down to inspect his ankles and pedes.

The standard systems check was finished by the time Ratchet had satisfied himself that Drift’s legs were in optimum condition. The data looked good but Ratchet initiated a deep scan just in case as he moved his inspection to Drift’s upper extremities. This was certainly not the quick double-check that he’d agreed to, but if he was going to do this, he was going to do it to the best of his ability.

Drift watched him closely, moving when directed to do so, revving his engine through all its gears, cranking up his cooling fans and shutting them down. “So, are you going to the Race?” he asked when Ratchet had him stand so he could assess the speedster’s spinal strut and hips.

Ratchet just grunted at that. He didn’t care for small talk at the best of times, and right now the  _last_  thing he wanted to think about was that fragging Race. “Bend down, touch your pedes,” he said, and tried not to let his gaze fixate on Drift’s aft when he immediately complied with the request. He did more than touch his pedes, he flattened his hands on the floor and pressed his forehelm against his legs too, showing off some truly impressive flexibility. Ratchet silenced and reset his vocalizer before speaking again. “Good. No pain?”

“None,” Drift replied, still bent double like it was nothing. “Will you be there?”

“Straighten up, slowly,” Ratchet said, and scanned the movement of each vertebrae as Drift did so. When he once more stood upright, Ratchet put one hand at the nape of his neck and the other at the base of his spinal strut and sent a harmless wave of energy between them. It flowed along his wiring without obstruction or delay. Satisfied that his spinal strut was perfectly aligned, Ratchet instead laid his hands on each side of the speedster’s helm. “I’m going to rotate your neck. Let it go limp. Don’t help me,” he instructed.

Drift immediately obeyed, letting Ratchet move his head however he liked. Ratchet took him through a full range of motion, feeling and listening for any grinding or roughness that would impede his movements. He found nothing that concerned him, so he said, “Good,” again and let go.

Before he could move to the next part of the exam, Drift turned to face him. “Ratchet,” he said, looking straight into his optics now. “Are you going to be at the Race tomorrow?”

Ratchet only held his gaze for a moment. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there,” he grudgingly replied since it seemed like Drift was going to keep asking until he got an answer. He supposed he couldn’t blame him. The Race of Primus was one of the least dangerous of the traditional Festival Races, but even mundane races were dangerous. Mecha were injured during every Race of Primus and deaths weren’t unheard of. If Drift couldn’t even bring himself to fully trust another medic to give him a proper tune-up, it was no surprise that he would want reassurance that Ratchet would be there in case he needed real medical attention. “I got roped into running the medical station for the damn thing. If you crash, I’ll be there to put your fool aft back together, all right? Now hush up and let me concentrate.”

Drift smiled and Ratchet scowled at him until he stopped, but even without the smile, the speedster still looked disgustingly pleased. Ratchet wished he had more things to check on Drift’s back so he didn’t have to stand in Drift’s view while he waited for the deep scan to finish. He normally loved making Drift smile, but the happiness on that beautiful face was painful right now. Instead of looking at him, Ratchet grabbed one of his arms and started moving it through a series of completely unnecessary movements as though he was still checking Drift’s range of motion.

He’d moved to the other arm and was running out of ways to move it when the deep-scan finally pinged him with its report. A careful examination of the results did actually reveal a few things that Ratchet could tweak to ensure that Drift’s engine would run at peak speed and fuel efficiency during the Race.

But on the heels of that thought came another, darker one.  _If I tweak them the other way, maybe he’ll lose._

Ratchet immediately shoved that thought away, scowling again but this time at himself. No matter what he thought of Drift’s decision to enter the Race, he wouldn’t sabotage him. Even if it meant he lost Drift forever to someone else, Ratchet couldn’t do that to him.  _Wouldn’t_  do it. It was a betrayal of everything he believed in, went against every line of his coding to even consider such a thing, and he was disgusted that the thought had crossed his processor at all.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still tempting.

Ratchet forced it aside and let go of Drift’s arm, briefly meeting his optics again. “I’m going to make a few adjustments,” he said, pushing that uncharacteristic and disturbing impulse down deep.  _If I’m doing this, I’m going to do it right_. “First Aid did a very good job and your engine is already performing well, but I think I can give you a little more acceleration and stamina.”

Drift suddenly took both his hands in a firm grip. “Thank you, Ratchet,” he said again. “See? First Aid may be good, but you’re the best.”

Ratchet reset his vocalizer again as a rush of pain threatened to choke him. “Just doing my job,” he said gruffly, and was both relieved and bereft when Drift squeezed briefly and released him. “And I would be remiss in doing that job if I didn’t tell you that entering this Race is a fragging _idiotic_ thing to do. It’s dangerous, Drift. It’s supposed to be a clean race but you know there are mecha every Festival who try to cheat or fight their way to the Victor’s Podium, and no matter what I do to your engine, there’s nothing that can protect you from an idiot willing to do anything to win.”

“Maybe I’m the idiot willing to do anything, you ever think of that? Everyone else should watch out for me,” Drift replied lightly, and Ratchet glared at him.

“This isn’t a damn joke, Drift!” he snapped, beyond angry now. “It’s a pointless,  _stupid_  tradition--do you understand that you could  _die_  for the sake of some moronic grand romantic gesture? It’s not worth your life and no mech worth your time would ask you to risk it!”

Drift’s optics softened. “He didn’t,” he murmured, calmly holding Ratchet’s angry gaze. “And he never would. That’s why I’m doing it. He  _is_  worth it--he’s worth everything in the universe.”

And hearing Drift talk like that about another mech hurt so fragging much that it was all Ratchet could do to keep venting through the pain. He locked down his EM field so Drift wouldn’t sense it and unplugged his cable with rock-steady hands. “Transform and pop your hood so I can get you in peak condition to risk your damn life for him, then,” he growled, taking refuge in his famous temper to hide what he was really feeling. Drift opened his mouth and Ratchet cut him off before he could make a sound. “And  _don’t_  fragging thank me again, either. Don’t thank me for this.”

Drift visibly swallowed the words. “I owe you, then. Can I say that?”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “Fine, great, you owe me. Repay me by not doing anything stupid tomorrow, you think you can manage that?” Drift started to speak again and Ratchet silenced him with a glare. “Of course you can’t, if you were capable of not doing something stupid, you wouldn’t be racing at all. Now shut up and  _transform_  already, will you?”

When Drift finally transformed back to robot mode over an hour later, his engine purred and every single piece of his frame was perfected to the very best of Ratchet’s ability. He stretched luxuriously and Ratchet couldn’t keep from staring as he twisted his lithe frame this way and that right in front of him. “Primus, that feels amazing,” he groaned, planting his hands on his hips and arching his back. Ratchet’s mouth went dry but he managed to get his optics aimed at Drift’s face instead of fixated on the red and white stripes curving around his waist by the time Drift opened his optics again. “You’re a miracle-worker, Ratch.”

The casual nickname stung, but not as much as the knowledge that he’d just done everything in his power to ensure that Drift had the best possible chance of winning the Race tomorrow.

He had no choice, though. Sending Drift into the Race in perfect condition was all Ratchet could do to protect him from injury, even if that also sent him into another mech's arms. “No miracles here, kid,” he said shortly as he fell heavily into his desk chair. “Only hard work. Now go on, get out of here. It’s getting late and you’ll need your recharge for tomorrow.”

Drift didn’t leave right away, though. He leaned a hip against the edge of Ratchet’s desk instead. “You should get some rest, too. Don’t think I can’t see how tired you are. When’s the last time you had a full, uninterrupted recharge cycle?”

“The day I was forged,” Ratchet responded automatically. Drift didn’t laugh and he waved a hand at his desk. “I’ve got to take care of at least some of this so Iacon’s hospitals keep running. Can’t do that if you’re here distracting me,” he added with a pointed look, hoping Drift would take the unsubtle hint to clear out because he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold himself together under that too-observant gaze.

Drift crossed his arms over his chest. “I bet this will all be here in the morning.”

“Yeah, every last bit of it and a lot more too,” Ratchet agreed. “If I can’t get on top of it, I can at least keep from being buried under it. Why are you so eager to run me out of here, anyway?”

“You’ve got somewhere to be tomorrow,” Drift said pointedly.

Ratchet sighed.  _Yeah, keep bringing that up, that’s just great. Twist that knife a little more_ , he thought bitterly. “I already said I’ll be there,” he growled through clenched denta, his fascade slipping. He hurried on, hoping Drift wouldn't have noticed. “If you’re not worried about the other racers and their dirty tricks, I’d think you’d be less determined to make sure you’ve got a medic there. It’s not too late to change your mind, you know. You can still embrace sanity and back out.”

Drift chuckled and nudged a pede against his. “Not a chance. I just need to make sure there’s at least one mech in my cheering section,” he said, but thankfully he finally walked to the door without waiting for Ratchet to try to come up with an answer to that. “Try to get at least a little recharge tonight, Ratch. You work too hard,” he called as he left.

Ratchet waved without looking up, knowing that there was no way he’d get any recharge at all now.


	2. Get Set

Drift had tried to take Ratchet’s advice to get a full recharge cycle after leaving his office, he really had. He’d even indulged in a hot oil soak and high-gloss wax and buff at his favorite bathhouse just to make sure he was relaxed enough to immediately fall asleep as soon as he got home.

Didn’t mean it had worked. He hadn’t been able to turn his processor off for a nanosecond no matter how hard he tried, so instead, he’d meditated on the Race. All night he’d run the course over and over in his processor. They'd released the route two weeks ago and Drift had memorized every inch of its path through Iacon: the straightaways where he could gun it to maximum speed, the switchbacks he’d have to take slowly to avoid spinning out, the areas where he could make a move to pass his competitors, the loop through the stadium where the race would start and finish and where he would make his pit stops for fuel and tires.

Where the medical pavilion would be.

Where  _Ratchet_ would be.

And at the center, so very near that medical tent, the Victor’s Podium where Optimus Prime would await the winner, where Drift hoped to stand in triumph. And if the thought of the Race made him nervous, imagining standing before all of Cyberton to risk it all and call out the name of the mech he’d loved for almost his entire life was  _terrifying_.

No, Drift hadn’t recharged at all, and when he’d checked in at the racers’ entrance to the stadium very early the next morning, he’d been worried about that. But as he looked at all the other racers milling around the pre-race holding area now, he could tell that he wasn’t the only one who had stayed up all night and was running on excitement and nerves.

And actually, he was holding up better than most. At least he’d been able to meditate if not to recharge, but several racers were visibly exhausted. Many more were clearly keyed up almost to the breaking point. Everyone was on edge, emotions and engines running hot, and keeping over three hundred high-strung speedsters confined in a fenced-off area like this wasn’t helping anyone calm down.

In fact, Drift had already seen several of his fellow racers get pulled aside by race officials for aggressive behavior or by medical staff for getting too overclocked with excitement as dawn neared, although he’d only been close enough to see what had happened with two of them.

The first had developed a bad case of engine knocks and one of the safety officers had called a medic named Triage over to evaluate her. Triage had examined her, but it only took him a few minutes before he reluctantly informed her that the danger of a catastrophic engine failure was too great to allow her to race. Of course she’d protested, and when that failed, she’d begged, but Triage didn’t budge in his decision. In the end she’d been escorted out by security, protesting loudly the entire way, and Drift’s spark went out to her. He knew he’d have reacted exactly the same if he were in her place.

She’d barely been gone five minutes before an engine explosively backfired right beside Drift. Someone yelped and he’d spun around to see a vibrant purple speedster shoot a gout of bright orange flame from his tailpipe as nearby racers scattered and officials rushed over. While clearly far from ideal, the flameout itself was not immediately disqualifying. But when First Aid had arrived to assess the damage to the racer’s engine, the medic had discovered a performance enhancing oxidizer mixed into his fuel.

First Aid was beside himself with fury. Every racer was to use the same fuel and it was slagging  _good_  fuel, too. All the racers had been taken to Medical first thing this morning where their tanks were purged and they were given top-of-the-line race-grade energon. The high-octane blend was designed to burn clean and optimize engine performance. It was some of the finest fuel Drift had ever tasted even after he’d joined the Primal Vanguard.

Adding extra chemicals to a high-quality precision mix like that was more than unnecessary, more than stupid, it was  _dangerous_. Those flames shooting out his tailpipe were proof enough that this idiot hadn’t known the proper balance of additive to fuel. Instead of giving himself an edge, he’d created a hazardously volatile blend. If he hadn’t been stupidly showing off enough to trigger that flameout, his engine block almost certainly would’ve exploded on the racetrack the first time he pushed it hard.

That racer was led away by security for a much different reason than the first one had been, and unlike her, he would never compete in any of the Festivals again even after he’d served his sentence for the fuel tampering. Drift watched him go, First Aid right on his heels berating him for his stupidity the whole way, and despite the seriousness of the situation, he had to smile. The young medic was showing definite signs of Ratchet’s influence.

And speaking of Ratchet, despite Drift’s excitement, his own engine purred. He revved a few times just to feel how smoothly his gears responded. He couldn’t stop doing that, really. Every time it gave him a thrill to remember Ratchet’s hands on him, the diligent way he’d labored to perfect every tiny detail of his timing. Ratchet had even doublechecked his alignment and adjusted the angle of his spoiler for maximum downforce to hug the course’s curves.

Drift had  _never_  been in this kind of shape, ever. Recharge or no recharge, he felt  _incredible._

And if he was honest, a big part of the reason he hadn’t been able to sleep was due to wondering if the CMO had worked so hard because he suspected which name Drift wanted to call. He’d thought long and hard about whether or not to tell him but he’d finally decided against it--he’d known what Ratchet thought of  _grand romantic gestures_  long before his rant yesterday, and he was afraid Ratchet would’ve found a way to stop Drift from racing at all if he’d confessed his intentions. Still, Drift clung to the hope that Ratchet knew. Even more than he yearned to win the mech he loved, Drift wanted Ratchet to  _want_  to be won.

And he thought that just maybe, Ratchet did want it. Oh, he had nothing he could point to specifically, but that feeling in his gears that Ratchet might not be as indifferent to him as he tried to seem wouldn’t go away.

Not that he’d had the slightest bit of success in persuading Ratchet to go on a date with him. Drift had tried everything he could think of to hint that he wanted more than friendship, without getting the medic to agree to so much as a single drink with him. In fact, he wasn’t even sure Ratchet had ever realized he was serious with his offers. His invitations were dismissed out-of-hand as platonic, usually with a comment on how busy Ratchet was but that Drift should go on and have fun with his friends without him. He couldn’t tell if Ratchet really believed Drift was trying to add him to group outings or if he was deliberately misunderstanding his intentions, but it was beyond frustrating.

The Race of Primus was the best way Drift could think of to make himself worthy of Ratchet and show him how much he meant to him in a way he couldn’t possibly misunderstand, deliberately or otherwise.

And if he was wrong? If Ratchet genuinely held no feelings for him beyond friendship? Well, Drift would still be able to spend a year with him in the Victor’s Mansion to try and change his mind. Drift’s determination had already helped him kick his drug addiction, clean himself up, and remake himself into someone Optimus Prime had found worthy of his Primal Vanguard. He planned to use every bit of that determination to win Ratchet over.

He was going to romance Ratchet so well that he wouldn’t know what hit him.

Even if he failed, at least he would know that he'd finally  _tried._

With that thought in mind, Drift craned his neck over the milling group of racers in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Ratchet at the medical pavilion. He hadn't seen him in Medical this morning and he’d already determined that he wasn’t one of the medics circulating through the pre-race holding area now, and there was nowhere else the CMO would be.

But it wasn’t easy to get a clear line of sight past all other the racers, some of whom were much bigger than Drift himself. Not to mention all the officials, handlers, safety inspectors, reporters, and priests of Primus circulating through the pre-race area. The priests were offering individual blessings to any racer who wanted one, and Drift fully intended to get one for himself before the call to assemble at the starting line, but right now all he wanted was to see--

_\--there!_

Drift’s spark thudded in his chest as he caught sight of Ironhide’s bulk at the back of the pavilion. Of course Ratchet would have a bodyguard today with this kind of crowd--the Prime’s personal medic always did--and knowing where ‘Hide was made it much easier to pick out the familiar red-and-white plating he’d been searching for. Even with his back to the racers, Drift would know Ratchet anywhere. He fixed his gaze on the medic, unconsciously murmuring, “Turn around, turn around,” as he tried to shift to a different vantage point in hopes of seeing his face.

Ratchet glanced over his shoulder at the pre-race area just then almost as though he’d heard him and even though he wasn’t looking anywhere near Drift, his spark still did a swooping little flip at the sight of that familiar handsome profile.

But his excited smile died at the sight of his face. Ratchet looked  _awful_ , and in a way that went far beyond the overworked fatigue he'd shown yesterday. Drift only had an instant’s glimpse before Ratchet winced and turned his back to the racers again. He didn’t even have time to wave to try to draw his attention.

All Drift’s pre-race nerves flashed to worry about Ratchet. This wasn’t exhaustion. This was… he didn’t know what it was, but something had  _put_  that look on Ratchet. Something had happened and it had to be something terrible, because in all the time he’d known Ratchet, through every crisis and emergency, he’d never seen him look like that.

Ratchet had an amica endura, Drift knew, even though he was oddly closed-mouthed about who it was. Had something befallen his amica? It was the only explanation Drift could think of that could make him look so devastated, but he had no way of checking without knowing a name.

If Ratchet’s amica was in some kind of trouble, though, he’d be there, not here. If the medic was anything, he was loyal.

Drift wrung his hands and tried to push down his near-panic without success. He wished anew that Ratchet was one of the circulating medics so he could talk to him, find out what was wrong and make sure he was going to be all right. Barring that, he wished he was allowed to leave this holding area and go over to the medical pavilion himself, but that would be an instant disqualification. Still, maybe he could speak to one of the officials and ask them to accompany him to make sure he didn’t break any rules while he checked on Ratchet. That could work, right?

He collided with another mech just then, and in the confusion of picking themselves up off the ground and convincing a race official that it had been an accident, not deliberate sabotage, Drift lost sight of Ratchet entirely. He hadn’t spotted him or Ironhide again by the time a loud cheer announced Optimus Prime’s arrival and the surge of racers around Drift made it impossible for him to see much beyond the circle of mecha around him.

There was a priest just to his left and he grabbed zir shoulder before ze could walk past him. “Can you go to the medical pavilion and ask a medic named Ratchet if he’s all right?” he shouted over the roar of the crowd.

Ze gave him a smile and made the sign of the Five over his helm. “Blessed are you, spark of Primus. May your engine run swift and true in worship of the First Spark, and may you labor in purity and honor for His glory,” ze gave the ritual blessing. Drift didn’t hear a word of it, only understanding zir from the movement of zir lips shaping the words.

Ze obviously hadn’t heard him either. He tried again. “Please, go find Ratchet! Make sure he’s all right!” he shouted as loudly as he could, but ze just smiled and patted his hand as though ze thought he was shouting his thanks. And then ze was gone, vanishing into the swirl of racers to give more last-minute blessings before he could do anything more to stop zir.

 _Stop it, you’re panicking over nothing. Ratchet’s fine,_ Drift told himself firmly, not even listening to Optimus Prime’s speech.  _Ironhide’s with him, and anyway, Ratchet wouldn’t be here if he was ill or injured. He’s driven, but he’s not stupid. He wouldn’t put himself in charge of patients’ lives if he wasn’t all right._

It was true--what Ratchet lacked in his motivation for self-care, he made up for in his dedication to his patients. Still, that glimpse of his haggard face and dim optics wouldn’t leave Drift’s mind.

Should… should he forget about the Race altogether and go over there to make sure Ratchet was truly all right?

“Racers, transform and take your places at the starting line,” Optimus’ voice boomed across the wide, open stadium, and Drift realized with a surge of nervousness that dawn--and the start of the Race--was only minutes away. It was too late now to do anything but follow his original plan. He vented slowly and deeply to center himself before transforming smoothly into his speedster mode. Whatever had happened to put that look on Ratchet’s faceplates, Drift could do nothing about it now, and he needed to focus on the task at hand.

If everything went well, he could dedicate the rest of their lives to ensuring that Ratchet never had cause to look like that ever again.

.

“Hey, Drift’s lookin’ this way, Ratch. You oughta wave.”

Ratchet gritted his denta and tried to ignore the bass rumble of Ironhide’s voice in his audial. His frame had other ideas, though, and his head swiveled around for an instant before he forced his optics back to his datapad. “Don’t call me that. And I don’t care who’s looking where, Ironhide, I am trying to  _concentrate_ ,” he growled as he stared unseeing at the words on the pad--some kind of list, it wasn’t important. Or maybe it was, he didn’t know. Mostly it was something to look at that wasn’t the racers or the stadium’s enormous screens, and that _was_  important. “Unlike some people I could name who just stand around looking pretty, I actually have  _work_  to do today.”

Ironhide crossed his arms over his wide chest and gave him a worried frown. “If lookin’ pretty’s part of your job description today, you shoulda stayed home. You look like you got beat down hard and dragged up the back end of a slag smelter.” Ratchet made a rude gesture without looking up and the warrior sighed. “Still not gonna tell me what’s gotcha looking like you toured the pit up close and personal, huh?”

“Anyone else would’ve taken a hint from the first twenty times I didn’t tell you,” Ratchet replied coldly because no, there was no fragging way he was going to discuss the last twelve hours of living hell he’d been through.

Especially not with Drift less than a hundred meters away. He’d seen the speedster when he’d arrived. He was even more beautiful than ever, his frame polished to such a high shine that his sleek white armor almost glowed in the pre-dawn air, his optics bright and hopeful and excited at the prospect of racing for his beloved.

A beloved who was not Ratchet.

He turned a shoulder toward Ironhide--he couldn’t fully turn his back on him because that would put him facing the racer’s holding area again, and he couldn’t take that view right now--in hopes that this time, his bodyguard would take the hint that he  _did not want to talk about it._  Ironhide sighed again but didn’t press him. Ratchet looked up at the crowd of cheering spectators filling the stands when Optimus arrived, his gaze traveling from face to excited face, wondering if the mech Drift was racing to honor was among them.

 _Which one of you is it?_  he thought with a sick, hopeless fury.  _Which one of you stole him from me?_  And that was utterly irrational because Drift had never been his to lose, but dammit, his spark had left  _rational_  behind twelve hours ago when Drift had walked into his office and asked Ratchet to help him win the mech he loved, the one who put that light in his optics and was worth everything in the universe to him. He’d tried to drown  _rational_  in a bottle of engex after the clinic was empty, and when that failed, he’d grabbed a second bottle and tried harder. And now he glared up into the sea of faces and had to consciously relax his grip on the datapad when it creaked between his hands, and as far as he was concerned,  _rational_  could take a flying leap up Unicron’s aft.

_Whoever you are, you don’t deserve him._

Optimus made his way to the Victor’s Podium and raised his hands for quiet. He even got it, or as close to quiet as two hundred thousand enthusiastic, eager mecha could give. Ratchet stared at his closest friend and didn’t bother listening to his words. He was certain they were inspirational, and honored Primus, and praised the faith and devotion of the racers, and he seriously didn't give a damn. Instead, when everyone else burst into raucous cheers during the breaks in Optimus’ speech, he couldn’t stop himself from looking over at the holding area again.

_Just one glimpse, now, when he won’t notice. He’ll be looking at Optimus too. He won’t see._

Ratchet knew it would be next to impossible to pick Drift out of the tightly packed crowd of racers, and the speech was almost over before he managed it. Still, he probably wouldn’t have spotted Drift at all if not for the priest. The movement of zir hand caught his optics as ze raised it in the traditional blessing for swiftness and good fortune above a white helm whose long, sharp finials sparkled brightly despite the dim predawn light. His spark contracted painfully and he sat down so quickly that Ironhide actually made a grab for his arm as if he feared he was collapsing. Ratchet waved him away and pretended to get something out of a low drawer so that no one would see the pain he knew he wasn’t keeping off his face.

There was no way he was going to make it through this race without giving himself away, at least to Ironhide if not to anyone else. His longtime friend was already worried, probably already suspected that his condition was more than just concern for a good friend who’d entered a dangerous competition, and he couldn’t take Hide’s pity. Not on top of everything else.

 _I wish I had just stayed home and stayed drunk,_  Ratchet thought bitterly.

But of course he couldn’t do that. He had obligations, a job to do, and that might be all he had but it was  _enough._

It would have to be.

“Racers, transform and take your places at the starting line,” Optimus’ voice boomed through the loudspeakers, audible even over the near-hysterical screams and revving engines of the hyped-up festival crowd, many of whom had started drinking the minute they’d arrived in Iacon and hadn’t stopped since. None of it was doing Ratchet’s hangover any favors and he lowered his audial sensitivity as much as he could without completely deafening himself.

When the hush fell, it was like all the sound had been sucked out of his world. Ratchet didn’t look at the starting line. He didn’t look for a white-and-red speedster. He didn’t want to know what starting position he’d drawn, whether he’d been given an advantage or a handicap in the randomized draw. It didn’t matter. He didn’t look.  _He wasn’t going to look._

A hand fell on his shoulder and Ratchet almost jumped out of his plating, but it was only Ironhide. His friend gave him a smile and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.  _Drift got a real good pole position, right up front. Primus is smilin’ on him,_  he said, and Ratchet read the words from his lips.

 _Frag Primus!_ “I don’t  _care,_ ” Ratchet snapped back, shoving his hand away, and he knew he was probably shouting into the near-silence but dawn’s blazing light burst through the stadium at his first word and Optimus shouted  _GO!_  and the crowd went crazy before anyone could notice his volume. Ratchet rubbed his optics with the heels of both hands and activated his medic protocols on emergency triage settings in an act of pure desperation to engage the emotion dampening effects.

The racers roared around the looped track and the other medics in the tent cheered when they blew past. Ratchet forced himself to look up once the protocols reduced that crushing pain in his spark to mere discomfort, but he still didn’t see Drift. Really he couldn’t make out anyone in the blur of metal that was the pack of racers already jockeying for position.

He reluctantly turned his audial sensitivity back up when First Aid walked over to the back corner Ratchet had claimed as his own. “We’re gonna have our first patients sooner rather than later if they keep that nonsense up,” he said, shaking his head at the sound of screeching metal as a few of the racers got a little too close on the final turn out of the stadium. “Don’t they remember that this is supposed to be a no-contact race? If they want to fight, they need to wait for Mortilus or Adaptus!”

“Idiots will be idiots,” Ratchet said sharply, “and every last one of them are fragging idiots. Ready triage team one and lead it. Put Ambulon on team two, Hoist on three, and I’ll lead team four.” Normally he would take the first team, but he was miserable and sleep deprived and his head wasn’t even close to clear. The four-team system had worked well at prior Festivals and usually the fourth team only got called out once, if that. Leading the primary team was usually the CMO’s privilege, but Ratchet would never put his own pride before the needs of his patients. If Ratchet could avoid making life-or-death calls while his head was in this kind of condition, that would be ideal.

“We’re ready, Ratchet,” First Aid said with a crisp nod, not questioning the changes. Then again, he could see what Ironhide saw. All the medics had been giving Ratchet and his vicious temper all the space they possibly could this morning and there was a good chance that First Aid had come over here to inform Ratchet that he'd already made those exact changes to the roster.

First Aid hesitated a moment as though considering saying something more, but in the end he thought better of it. Ratchet was glad that the other medic was able to immediately get the point that Ironhide kept missing and didn’t bother asking him what was wrong. However, that discretion didn’t stop First Aid from putting a cube of a detoxifying energon blend and a hypodermic of what looked like a mild painkiller down on the desk in front of him.

Ratchet glanced at the two items, then looked back up at his second, but he took a cue from Aid and wordlessly reached for the cube instead of asking questions. If First Aid wanted to treat his condition as a mere hangover, Ratchet was more than willing to go along.

And anyway, he wasn’t wrong. Ratchet was indeed hungover,  _horrifically_  hungover as a matter of fact, and he hadn’t fueled this morning either. This was going to be a long day. The Race was a long one and he couldn’t leave until it was finished, and depending on the butcher’s bill from crashes, he would probably be stuck in surgeries long into the evening. He was going to need the energon, and the pain meds would hopefully take care of the aches all along his spinal strut from spending hours curled up on the floor of his office around those steadily-emptying bottles of engex. Aid waited for him to drain the cube and inject the painkiller into his medication port before he nodded and left to rejoin the other medics who were enthusiastically watching the Race.

It seemed like no time at all had passed before a roar from the crowd indicated that the racers were coming through again after their first lap. Ratchet tried not to look but he couldn’t help it. The first vehicle that shot past their tent was blue, and the next was green, and then the rest of the pack came through in a multicolored blur that went by too fast for him to make out where Drift was in it.  _Hopefully way, way in the back,_  he thought uncharitably, and immediately felt ashamed for it. That was the same little voice that had urged him to sabotage Drift’s engine, and he was better than that, dammit.

He hoped he was better than that.

Just then three racers collided almost directly in front of the pavilion. Two more plowed right into them before they could swerve around them. “Not even two laps in and we've got our first customers,” First Aid said as he and the other two medics of team one transformed to race over, with team two following right on their bumpers because of the number of mechs involved in the wreck. Ratchet’s hands itched to get out there and help but he stayed put, respecting the abilities of the medics he’d assigned to the primary teams even though the energon and meds First Aid had given him were doing their work well. He felt almost like his normal self, especially with his emergency medical protocols running.

And then Ironhide leaned a hip on the desk beside him and said, “Drift’s runnin' at number eighteen, not too bad in a field of three hundred,” and Ratchet knew he wasn’t all right, not at all.

“I didn’t ask,” he growled at his bodyguard.

“Yeah, but I figured you wanted to know,” Hide returned calmly. Ratchet didn’t dignify that with a response before going over to the temporary slabs they’d set up for patients and preparing to receive the wounded racers.

And Ironhide kept that up all morning as the laps went by, updating Ratchet on Drift’s progress whether he wanted him to or not. “Fifty laps in and he’s moved up to twelve,” Ironhide told Ratchet as he spot-welded a patch over a damaged fender and sent the racer back to the track.

“Don’t care,” he said, not that it did any good.

“He’s dropped back to fifteenth now,” he reported at lap seventy as Ratchet helped load a more severely injured mech into another ambulance for transport to the hospital.

“What part of  _I don’t care_  aren’t you understanding?” he snapped back.

“Would you look at that, he’s in sixth now! Halfway there, all he’s gotta do is keep it and make a move at the end!” Ironhide said excitedly at lap one hundred, even going so far as to pound on Ratchet’s shoulder in his enthusiasm.

“Ironhide, I swear before Primus and every last one of the Five that I will break you in half over one of these fragging slabs and weld your mouth to your damn  _aft_  if you don’t stop it,” Ratchet snarled, knocking Ironhide’s hand away.

The big fighter rolled his optics. “C’mon, he’s one of your best friends! I know you ain't much of a Race fan but how can you not want to know how he’s… he’s…”

Ironhide’s voice trailed off and he stared at Ratchet as understanding dawned. “Oh,” he said quietly. “Oh slag. Oh Primus, Ratch, I’m sor--”

 _Fragging pit._ Ratchet spun on his heel and stomped over to the nearest slab, ripping the disposable cover off with far more force than necessary. The crunch of the thin metal in his hands almost obscured Ironhide’s words and he pretended he couldn’t hear at all. “Ironhide, I say this as a friend,” he said in a calm, level voice as he wadded up the cover and flung it into the recycling bin. “Shut up or I will  _shut_  you up. You’ve got nothing to say that I want to hear right now. Is that understood?”

“Yeah,” Ironhide replied, his tone now subdued with sorrow. “Yeah, Ratch.”

Ratchet wanted to yell  _and stop calling me Ratch!_  but he managed to bite the words back. Ironhide had called him that forever. It wasn’t fair to expect him to stop just because Drift had picked up the habit, too. Instead he nodded sharply and continued disinfecting the slab, his movements jerky, and tried to ignore the pity that Hide wasn’t quite keeping out of his field.  _Probably not fair to punch him for that, either,_  he thought with a sigh, but he couldn’t keep from bitterly adding,  _though he could at least pull his damn field in so I don’t have to feel it._

The morning dragged on, time measured in the roar of passing engines with every lap, the cheers of the crowd as the racers zoomed through, the stream of patients under his hands. Ironhide and First Aid spoke in the corner and Ratchet caught a few words-- _fifty laps to go_  and  _lost some ground_ and  _should come in for a pit, he’s gonna burn his engine out_ \--and tried to convince himself that they were talking about some other racer, but he knew Drift hadn’t pitted in almost forty laps whereas his competitors were pitting every twenty or thirty. His medical protocols spat out estimates of what kind of wear and tear he was building up with every lap, how his coolant must be near boiling, his struts aching, his brakes scalding as the urban course required him to brake for sharp turns and accelerate explosively on the straightaways, then brake and veer the other way, over and over again. And Ratchet knew that necessity had forced Drift to learn how to run hard on near-empty tanks, but how the hell was he still going at this pace without refueling?

Ratchet tried to convince himself not to worry about it, to tell himself that Drift knew his own limits and anyway, he wanted him to  _lose_ , right? What did it matter  _how_  he lost so long as he did?

He was no fragging good at lying to himself.

Drift did come in for a pit two laps later and Ratchet couldn’t stop himself from looking over. His tires were  _sizzling_  as the crew swapped them for new ones and it took almost three cubes to fill his tank--he must truly have been running on fumes. “Dammit, kid,” he growled before he could stop himself, and quickly turned away when Ironhide looked over. He heard Drift roar out of pit row seconds later and didn’t watch him go.

Cybertron’s sun was nearing its zenith when Ironhide came back over to his side. “Doesn’t look like he’s gonna win,” he said after giving Ratchet a cautious look. “Three laps left and he’s been stuck in the pack for the last dozen. Can’t seem to move up past ninth.”

Ratchet just grunted in response. The emergency protocols weren’t meant to be used like this, and they kept deactivating when he wasn’t directly working on patients. He would feel all right, then out of nowhere that crippling pain would return, squeezing his spark hard enough to make him gasp, and he’d scramble to reactivate the emergency protocols to drive it away again.

Until the next time. And the next. 

The emotional back-and-forth was exhausting, especially on top of everything else, and he just didn’t have anything extra to spend on conversation right now. Ironhide didn’t seem to need anything else from him, though. He just squeezed his shoulder and moved away again.

The racers roared past the medical pavilion again and Ratchet looked this time. There Drift was, trapped in a tightly-grouped pack just behind the leaders. He could practically feel the speedster’s frustration and even though he didn’t want to lose Drift, it hurt him to imagine how he must feel right now. The medical protocols failed again and he closed his optics as despair washed over him in the seconds before he managed to reactivate them.  _Just give me another half an hour,_  he silently begged the protocols, as though the programming was sentient and could hear him.  _Give me that long. Then it’ll be over and I can get out of here._

He found himself standing beside Ironhide as the crowd started cheering again. A slender mech was climbing a tower with two large, glowing flags. Ratchet had watched the Race in past Festivals enough to know that his arrival signaled the final two laps of the Race. He would wave a white flag to signify the final lap, and a checkered flag emblazoned with the First Face to mark the winner.

 _Almost over now,_  Ratchet thought, unconsciously letting his field brush against his friend’s as if seeking to absorb some of his strength. Ironhide responded with a firm wave of encouragement and confidence and Ratchet straightened his spinal strut, realizing what he’d done. He pulled his field back immediately but the sense of Ironhide’s support remained.

The first racers entered the stadium a minute later and Ratchet saw that Drift remained firmly locked in the pack. “Looks like Fasttrack’s gonna win it,” First Aid commented nearby as the red car neared the far curve.

“Yeah, he was the odds-on favorite going in, especially since Blurr won last time 'round,” Ambulon said, and Ratchet finally started to relax.

And then Fasttrack’s front tire blew.

He was going at full speed when the blowout happened and the tire flew apart with a bang like a gunshot. Steel-belted fragments exploded from the rim and peppered Arcee and Mirage who had been battling for second place. Fasttrack swerved wildly, desperately trying to control himself with half his steering abruptly gone, but sparks flew from his front fender grinding on the racetrack and he started to spin wildly. He nicked Mirage and the blue racecar spun out too. His bumper caught Arcee right between her wheels and flung her into the air. The motorcycle flew over the fourth place racer, a yellow speedster Ratchet didn’t recognize, and slammed into the pack behind it.

The pack where Drift had been trapped for nearly fourteen laps.

“Oh, Primus help us,” First Aid whispered as the chain reaction grew. Racers slammed into those in front of them or swerved only to run over loose body panels. More tires blew out as engines screamed and metal crumpled. Fire erupted from somewhere and ignited a spray of fuel against a sudden billow of black smoke, shading the wreckage in nightmare hues. It was carnage.

But Ratchet only had optics for one racer.

Drift slammed on his brakes the instant Fasttrack’s tire blew. He pulled hard to the right and his tires shrieked on the pavement as the pack scattered as though making way just for his move. He skidded sideways past the entangled frames of Mirage and the yellow speedster, wheels spinning fast enough to kick up smoke as he slid through an impossibly tight space between three other racers. He straightened out of the drift with a jerk and gunned it, speeding straight under Fasttrack’s tumbling, bouncing frame. Even from this distance, Ratchet heard the roar of his engine as he shot beneath him and out ahead of the wreckage into the clear.

Ratchet realized that he was holding onto Ironhide’s arm, fingers digging in so tight that it had to be painful, and Ironhide had been speaking in his ear for several seconds now. “--e’s fine, Ratch, are you listening? Drift’s fine, didn’t even get a scratch--”

He snatched his hand back but he still couldn’t tear his gaze away from Drift until the speedster had roared out of the stadium again with Bluestreak right beside him as race officials called a caution and the pace car darted out to slow them down.

But even though his fuel pump felt like it had crawled right up into his intake, there was work to be done. Ratchet had to force himself to step back and let First Aid call the shots. “Teams one through three, get out there! Team four, prep tables for casualties. Ratchet, get transport ready for all of them to the nearest trauma center. It looks like we’ve got nine racers down and I doubt any of them will be a treat and release. Move!”

The next few minutes were a blur. Ratchet and the other medics patched spurting energon lines and stabilized shattered struts as the transport ambulances arrived one by one to take the injured away. It seemed like a long time passed, but his internal chronometer said it was less than ten minutes before all the injured were off the course. The officials raised the caution and the race restarted.

Ironhide had stayed well out of the way while the medics were working, but once the last patient was loaded into an ambulance and sent on their way, he returned to Ratchet’s side. “It’s the last lap--you missed the flag. Drift and Bluestreak keep trading the lead. You gonna be all right if he wins?” he asked quietly.

“Don't ask stupid questions,” Ratchet growled, shoving his hands beneath a cleanser spray at the back of the tent and washing the energon away. But then he caught a glimpse of the honest concern on Ironhide's face and forced himself to gentle his tone. His friend didn't deserve that. “I can't think about it now, Hide. Please. Just... don't.”

Ironhide looked like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it and nodded instead. Ratchet stayed by the sinks as the crowd started to cheer again. If they had been loud before, it was nothing compared to the wave of sound that crashed through the stadium now as the lead racers sped into the final loop of track. He closed his optics and gripped the edge of the sink hard as the noise grew and grew until it seemed to block out everything else in the world. Ironhide expanded his field again, offering strength and comfort like he had before, and this time Ratchet didn’t pull his own field away from it.

He couldn’t look, but he had to know.  _::Is Drift still in the lead?::_  Ratchet asked via comms. It was much too loud to even attempt to speak.  _::Is he going to win?::_

 _::Yeah, he is, and he might,::_  Ironhide replied. He moved closer and even without looking, Ratchet could tell he was standing right behind him now, blocking anyone from seeing him.  _::Frag, Ratch, he and Bluestreak are dead even. I can’t tell you who’s gonna take it.::_

Ratchet focused on the wordless roar of the crowd, trying to convince himself that it was that he heard and not the roar of two engines being pushed to their absolute limits. He didn’t dare mute his audials this time. He didn’t want to be alone in his head with his thoughts right now, and he found those medical protocols and he clung to them hard.  _Don’t you dare fail me now_.

A sudden burst of noise from the spectators hit him like a wall of sound, loud enough to make him wince. “Who is it?” Ratchet asked Ironhide, not bothering to keep the dread from his voice. That roar could only mean one thing.

For better or for worse, the Race was over.

Ironhide didn’t answer him. Ratchet forced his optics open and pried his fingers from the edge of the sink. “Don’t drag it out, Hide,” he said, turning only far enough to see the wall of red armor that was his friend. “Who won?”

_“Your attention please! For the first time in the history of the Festival of Primus, the Race is too close to call! We ask for your patience while the Prime and judges confer to determine the winner of this Festival’s Race. Let’s hear it for all our brave entrants!”_

Ratchet sagged against the sink. Just when he’d thought it couldn’t get worse, it  _did._  Now they wouldn’t even put him out of his misery.

And that cruel little voice couldn't help pointing out that with a margin of victory that was this narrow, any tiny thing could have been the deciding factor.

Even, say, a tune-up that was just slightly better than the competition's.

First Aid suddenly appeared at his side, pushing one of the rolling stools. “Sit,” he said firmly, and when Ratchet did, he shoved a cube of energon into his hands. Ratchet had no energy to disobey. He took a gulp and nearly choked when the burn of engex kicked his glossa instead of the mild sweetness of midgrade. He gave the younger medic a startled look, wondering how much he'd mixed in there, but when First Aid crossed his arms over his chest and jerked his chin at the cube, he finished it without protest. None of them spoke as the minutes ticked by, each second an eternity, the three of them forming an island of silence in a sea of cheering voices and weary, overstressed engines looping the track in cool-down laps.

When the loudspeakers clicked back on an eternity later, Ratchet forced himself to his feet. He swayed a little with a combination of fatigue and dread and the engex First Aid had put in his energon, but he didn’t let Ironhide take his arm to steady him. Whatever happened, whatever they said, he was going to face it standing up and under his own power.

 _“Citizens of Cybertron, we have a Victor!”_  the announcer shouted, and First Aid and Ironhide both turned to look toward the Podium as the stadium erupted in cheers. Ratchet didn’t want to--Primus, he didn’t want to--but he couldn’t stop his optics from following. Optimus Prime rose and descended the steps to where Drift and Bluestreak waited. They had transformed back into their root modes and stood side by side, both of them smudged with soot and clearly exhausted but holding their heads high as they waited for the decision of the judges.

Optimus Prime paused before them and lifted both hands, one over each bowed helm. When he spoke, his booming voice carried clearly to the furthest edges of the stadium. “Bluestreak, Drift, you have raced today with honor and skill. Primus is well pleased with you both, and Cybertron salutes you. But however we may all wish otherwise, the Race of Primus may only have one winner.”

Then one hand descended to rest upon the winner’s shoulder, and when the mech’s knees threatened to buckle, Optimus gripped both his shoulders to steady him.

“Primus favors you this day, Drift. It is my honor to name you the Victor of this Race.”

Ratchet wasn’t aware of looking away. He didn’t remember moving. But the next thing he knew, bright sunlight hit him in the face. He hissed and tried to bring his hands up to shade his hangover-sensitive optics, but only one actually rose at his direction.

The other couldn’t because Ironhide had a firm grip on his upper arm, and that finally prompted Ratchet to realize that he had somehow left the medical pavilion and was now stumbling through the crowd in the big fighter’s wake. “Wait,” he protested, stumbling over someone’s pede as ‘Hide pulled him through the screaming mecha. “I need to… can’t just leave…”

“Don’t worry about that. First Aid’s got it covered,” Ironhide told him firmly. “You don’t want to be here for this.”

Ratchet thought about protesting again but in the end it was easier to let Ironhide drag him along. Anyway, his friend was right. He  _didn’t_  want to be here for this, didn’t want to listen to Optimus give Drift a fortune in shanix and the keys to the Victor’s Palace and more than anything, he didn’t want to hear Drift’s answer when he was offered his choice of mate. He kept his head down to block the light stabbing his tender optics and completely offlined his audials just in case Ironhide didn’t get him out of here in time.

And it didn’t seem like he would. The stadium was packed and mecha were all but stampeding in their eagerness to swarm over the track, trying to get close to the Podium. Ironhide was big and he was strong and he was beyond stubborn, rivaling Ratchet himself, but there was only so much any mech could do running against a tide like that.

Still, Ironhide managed to get them within a dozen meters of the nearest exit when he stopped dead so suddenly that Ratchet plowed face-first straight into his back because he wasn’t paying the slightest attention to where they were going. He swore and rubbed his throbbing chevron and glared when Ironhide spun around. “What the frag, ‘Hide?” he snapped as his headache surged to nauseating proportions.

Ironhide gestured excitedly and shouted but Ratchet didn’t have to turn on his audials to know that he wouldn’t have been able to hear a word even with his hearing turned up to maximum. The waves of sound vibrated through his frame from two hundred thousand mecha all cheering at the top of their vocalizers.

Drift must’ve named his mate.

Sparksick, Ratchet shoved at Ironhide and glared again when he didn’t budge. Ironhide shouted again and then grabbed his shoulders and shook him before hailing him over his personal comm. _::For Primus’ sake, Ratch, didn’t you hear that?::_  he shouted at him.  _::Get up there!::_

Ratchet stared at him in complete confusion.  _::I’m not stupid enough to keep my audials on right now with all this noise. Get up_ where _?::_

Ironhide laughed out loud.  _::Up to the Podium! Drift named_ you, _Ratchet!::_  he said joyfully, shaking him again, but this time Ratchet didn’t even feel the movement.

Everything in his frame stopped dead. Even his spark felt like it stilled, frozen between one second and the next, and somehow he managed two words.  _::Not funny.::_

 _::Not kidding!::_  Ironhide shoved a datapacket over the connection and Ratchet opened it on reflex to find a short audio burst.

“Drift, all these prizes you have earned from me as Prime, on behalf of the citizens of Cybertron and the followers of Primus.” Optimus’ voice, clearly having just described the fame and glory and riches and everything else that came with winning the Race. “But there is one reward which can only be bestowed by Primus Himself. In the name of the Five, it is my privilege to offer you the choice of a mate. Who will you claim?”

Drift’s voice now, shaking slightly, hoarse, nervous, but absolutely sure. “In the name of the Five, and if he will have me, I claim Ratchet.”

Ratchet’s knees buckled. He would’ve fallen had Ironhide not grabbed him. For a long moment he could do nothing but gape at Ironhide, and finally his bodyguard laughed again.  _::Turn your damn audials back on, you idiot, and get your aft up there! He’s waiting for you!::_

Ratchet finally regained enough control of his frame to get his pedes under him and his hearing back online, but in his shock he forgot to turn it to low sensitivity. The sudden explosion of sound overwhelmed him all over again and he sagged against Ironhide until he could reduce his audial input to 10%, and the hefty shot of engex First Aid had snuck on him wasn’t doing him any favors. Finally he managed it and started to turn to look back down at the Podium.

But all of this had clearly taken too long for Ironhide. Ratchet gasped as his bodyguard grabbed him by the waist and lifted him straight up in the air. “He’s right here!” Ironhide bellowed to the mecha surrounding them. “C'mon, y'all get him up there!”

Ratchet slapped at the hands that immediately reached for him. “What? No! Ironhide, what the frag are you--stop that, let go of me!” he shouted, but no one was interested in listening to him. He caught one glimpse of the slag-eating grin on Ironhide’s faceplates before he was borne up and over the top of the crowd, passed from hand to hand as every mech within reach joined together to pass him toward the Podium.

“Stop it, I can fragging well walk!” Ratchet shouted, not that it made any difference. One news cameramech found him and suddenly his image was plastered across the enormous screens throughout the stadium and he was treated to the sight of his complete loss of control in vivid holoprojections a hundred feet high. “Put me  _down!”_  Ratchet yelled as more hands grabbed him, pulled him this way and that, took him to the edge of a railing and  _dropped_ him to the waiting mecha just below.  _“Get off me, I can get there myself!”_

One of the “helpful” mecha got a handful of his aft and squeezed. Ratchet kicked straight down and heard someone yelp--hoped it was the right mech--and someone else laughed, and then that laughter spread throughout the crowd. Ratchet didn’t even know what he was shouting anymore. He couldn’t hear a thing over the roar of the crowd, not even his own voice, but he didn’t need words to express his displeasure with this method of transport. Someone else tried to tickle his hip and he answered  _that_  with a punch, and that time he  _was_  certain that he got the right mech. “Keep your damn hands to yourself or I’ll fragging well tear ’em off!” he snarled, and then he was out of range and moving faster.

He got a glimpse of his furious face on the big screen just before it cut to a shot of Drift and Optimus, but he didn’t get more than an instant’s view of them. Several mecha up ahead were fighting for the right to help pass him along and others joined in, and the mecha below him didn’t see it. They enthusiastically passed him straight toward the growing brawl and Ratchet shouted warnings that no one could hear until he finally threw dignity aside, planted one pede on an unsuspecting shoulder, and  _shoved_  himself in a new direction. “You stupid fraggers aren’t even looking where you’re taking me!” he shouted as more hands caught him and his inexorable progress continued, this time turned face-down so he couldn’t see anything but reaching, clutching hands.

The forward movement finally stopped. Ratchet heard more laughter as he was flipped onto his back and then he was looking up to see Optimus Prime standing a meter above him on the Podium.  _Fraggers couldn’t even bring me to the stairs so I could walk up there with a single scrap of dignity,_  he fumed, but when Optimus knelt and reached down to him, Ratchet gladly grabbed on so his amica could pull him away from the crowd and their eager, grabbing hands. Some idiot decided to pat his aft one last time on the way up and Ratchet kicked blindly but missed, and Ironhide was going to fragging  _pay_  for this if it was the last thing Ratchet ever did. What the frag kind of horrible slagging excuse for a bodyguard threw his charge to a hungry crowd like that?

And then Optimus straightened and put him on his pedes atop the Podium, holding onto his shoulders until he had time to fully regain his balance. He took one look at Ratchet's thunderous face and squeezed his shoulders lightly. “Ratchet, behave,” he murmured, somehow perfectly audible even over the noise of the crowd.

Ratchet glared at him. All the shouting he'd been doing and Optimus could fragging _murmur_ over the roar of sound filling the stadium, it wasn't fair. “ _Frag_  your ‘behave,’ I am going to fragging  _kill_  him for this,” he snarled, not bothering to keep his own voice down because clearly no one could hear _him_ in this cacophony.

Optimus chuckled. “Behave,” he said again, and then he turned and Ratchet saw Drift standing nervously right beside him.

His vents froze and his spark leapt in its casing at the sight of him. Drift was no longer the shining vision of perfection that he’d been in the pre-dawn glimpses Ratchet had gotten before the race. His white paint was dulled with exhaust and scraped down to the metal in some places, one shoulder panel was badly dented, and the tires on his forearms were nearly bald from heat and wear, but even battered and dirty and exhausted, Drift was still the most beautiful mech Ratchet had ever seen.

And this vibrant, driven, intelligent, amazing mech had called Ratchet’s name. Not once had Ratchet dared to hope for that, but this was real. Somehow, through some miracle, this was really happening.  _Drift could have anyone, and he’d chosen Ratchet._  The despair he’d been fighting ever since Drift had left his office evaporated as though it had never been and Ratchet curled his fingers into his palms to hide how his hands trembled as he waited for Optimus to ask him for an answer he’d never thought he’d have the chance to give.

But Optimus abruptly turned back to the edge of the Podium instead. Several mecha, overexcited and likely overcharged as well, had decided to follow Ratchet up. Security mecha were trying to get to them but Optimus was closer. He reached for the pair and plucked them entirely off their pedes before they could get anywhere near Drift and Ratchet, and in brief delay where Optimus delivered them to Prowl and Red Alert, Drift grabbed Ratchet’s arm and pulled him over.

“Don’t say it,” he hissed in Ratchet’s audial, and everything in Ratchet stopped.

He looked at Drift but he couldn’t get any meaning from the urgent expression in his optics. Had he heard him correctly? “What?”

Drift squeezed his arm and leaned in so close that Ratchet could feel his breath on his audial port. “I know what you want to say but don’t, please don’t,” Drift said, speaking fast, almost begging. “Take the year. Please, Ratchet, take the year!”

Ratchet’s spark had just begun to believe and now it fell in confusion. He wanted to protest, to ask what the frag Drift was doing, why he’d called his name if he didn’t want him to say yes, but Optimus returned before he could ask him anything at all. Drift released him but he held Ratchet’s gaze, optics burning in a silent plea, and Ratchet’s newborn hope shriveled down to nothing.

In the end, he didn’t really need to understand Drift’s reasons for saying his name. All he needed to understand was that Drift didn’t actually want him to agree to a bond, and when Optimus rested a hand on his shoulder and asked for his answer, Ratchet did the only thing he could.

He gave Drift what he’d asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... show of hands, who hates me right now?
> 
> Oh, and since this is an AU without the Autobot/Decepticon war, Ratchet's not quite as vehemently atheistic here. He's not a huge fan of the Festivals or the Race because they make people act like idiots, but he doesn't actually hate Primus or the concept of the Five.
> 
> And nonconsensual crowdsurfing! That tag's for rizobact! bwahahahahahaha!


	3. GO!

Drift felt like he was going to vibrate right out of his plating with impatience by the time they finally got to the Victor’s Mansion. It had taken approximately  _forever_  to get here and he’d started to feel less like winning the Race of Primus was a dream come true and more like he’d somehow gotten stuck in one of those nightmares where he couldn’t accomplish anything no matter how hard he tried.

He’d wanted to talk to Ratchet, but he’d been swept aside the instant they’d walked off the Victor’s Podium and Ratchet hadn’t been allowed to come with him. He’d been taken the other direction by Optimus Prime, leaving Drift to face a team of handlers alone. They’d herded him deeper into the arena’s backstage area for the official photography session. He hadn’t been allowed clean up first--apparently having the grime of the Race still on his plating added  _that special something_ to the pictures, although all that Drift could tell it added was smell and itch. He’d told himself that this part wouldn’t take long, that he’d be done with this quickly and could find a washracks in just a few minutes, and then he would get to see Ratchet looking more like a Victor and less like something the scraplets dragged in.

But  _quickly_ didn’t seem like it was on the itinerary today. The photography session took  _hours._  “Is there any energon?” he asked as the photographer pushed him into position in front of a large banner proclaiming him the Victor of the 114th Running of the Race of Primus.

“We’re on a schedule and that close finish put us behind already. I’m afraid you’re going to have to make do with what you’ve already had for a little while,” the photographer told him. “You can get some more after this, all right?”

Drift hadn’t had any at all but he didn’t want to argue with the harried-looking mech. “All right,” he said, and then the parade of mecha who’d earned, won, or bought photos with him began.

Blurr was brought in first as the Victor of the last Festival of Primus, and the racer gave Drift a commiserating smile after their portrait, said, “Brace yourself,” and was gone before Drift could ask what he meant.

Next came the distinguished members of the Cybertronian Senate for their photos, both as a group and individually. Trying to get one single shot that every last one of them were happy with took nearly an hour alone, and that was just the group picture. The individual poses were a nightmare all their own. A bigger group of prima donnas Drift had never seen.

At least, until the High Priest of Primus arrived. Between him and the High Priests of the rest of the rest of the Five, they put the Senators to shame.

Then came Optimus Prime, who was in and out in less than five minutes. Drift breathed a sigh of relief that at least one of the mecha he had to pose with didn’t request twenty different pictures to choose from.

After Optimus left, the heads of the companies who had supplied various parts of the Victor’s Prize package or helped to sponsor the Race were brought in, and they all insisted on individual shots instead of one group portrait. By now the photographer was very nearly crying with frustration and the only reason Drift didn’t join him was that he didn’t want to stress the poor mech even more.

But the businessmechs were still waiting so Drift smiled as patiently as he could and took individual shots with them.

Every. Last. One of them.

And finally came the lucky few who’d won contests to meet the Victor. Drift tried to be gracious to the excited mecha but he wasn’t used to having fans at all, and three mecha with clipboards and sour expressions were waiting at the doorway and pointedly checking the chronometer on the wall, and he was tired and he wanted some energon and he was  _sick_  of smiling for the damn camera. All he wanted to do was get this part over with so he could find some fuel and see Ratchet.

By the time the last of them had filed out, Drift felt like he’d posed with half the population of Iacon. So many mecha and so many pictures, and every last one of them seemed determined to claim as much of Drift’s time as they could. He couldn’t count how many times he heard some variation on the theme of  _just one more shot,_   _make sure you get my good side, wait I think my optics were closed in that one, can you get an extra just in case that one doesn’t turn out?_  Drift had smiled until his faceplates ached and then smiled some more, and every time the door opened for someone new to come in, he’d hoped it would finally be Ratchet, and every time he was disappointed.

When Ratchet was  _finally_  brought in for their picture, they were running so far behind schedule that the photographer had barely snapped a single shot before Drift’s handlers were ushering him away. Ratchet was gone again before Drift could say two words to him. He didn’t even get to make optic contact with him before he was being pushed away from Ratchet again and toward a new room, this one full of reporters.

He balked briefly at the door. “Can I get some energon first? I’m on empty,” he asked the closest mech, because he hadn’t dared to pit any more than absolutely necessary on his final push to the finish line and there had been no time since to grab a cube.

He looked surprised. “Did no one give you any? I’ll send someone to bring you some,” he promised, and shooed Drift into the press conference before he could protest.

At least this part Drift had anticipated, although it didn’t go the way he’d imagined either. He’d been looking forward to the press conference because he would finally get to see Ratchet again, but Ratchet didn’t join Drift at the table of microphones. Every post-Race press conference he’d seen before had included the Victor’s chosen mate, even the ones who were less than thrilled about being called. In fact, those press conferences were usually highly anticipated, because some of the “prizes” weren’t the least bit shy about expressing their displeasure.

He wasn’t given much time to ponder Ratchet’s absence, though, because instead of being interviewed alongside his chosen mate, Drift was joined by Optimus Prime. While of course Drift was honored to be in such company, he really, really wanted to see Ratchet and gauge his mood. Was he really so very angry that he refused to even be in the same room with him?

Drift vented slowly, trying to calm the panic of that thought. Maybe he was reading too much into Ratchet’s absence. Perhaps this time around they’d simply decided to interview the Victor’s chosen separately and no one had thought to tell Drift about the change.  _Don’t assume,_  he chided himself, trying to concentrate on the reporters’ questions instead of his nervousness.  _There are all kinds of reasonable explanations for why he’s not here. You might be worrying over nothing._

But that hope died when one reporter asked where Ratchet was. Drift hadn’t known what to say but Optimus had leaned forward and replied, “Ratchet wished me to tell you all that while he recognizes that being chosen is a great honor, and he commends Drift for his valiant efforts during the Race today, he remains Iacon’s Chief Medical Officer and there are still wounded racers who require his attention. He will join us in the celebrations as soon as his duties permit.”

Drift tried to look like this wasn’t news to him but that was even more confusing. Ratchet was a fantastic medic but he certainly wasn’t the only medic in Iacon today, and getting chosen by the Victor was supposed to trump everything else. It was one of the great equalizers of Cybertronian culture--Senator or gutter mech, the Victor’s chosen was lifted out of their daily life and celebrated. While they would return to their normal duties after the festivities ended whether they bonded with the Victor or chose the year trial period, they were automatically granted time off during the week of the Festival.

First Aid should really have taken over for Ratchet, or any number of other medics. But the reporter had just nodded without asking any follow-up questions, and Drift couldn’t really ask any questions of his own.

He tried to comfort himself by remembering that Ratchet’s dedication to his patients was well-known. Drift wasn’t surprised that he would choose to see to the wounded instead of joining Drift for a series of tedious pictures and nosy questions, and it was a much better explanation than  _Ratchet is so furious that he can’t even stand to be in the same room with me_.

Drift couldn’t help being disappointed, though. Optimus Prime had pointed out that being chosen was an honor--and Drift wasn’t fooled, those had been his words, not Ratchet’s--but Drift hadn’t wanted him to merely be  _honored_. He had hoped Ratchet would be  _happy_.

Well, Ratchet certainly hadn’t been happy when the crowd had delivered him to the Podium. As a matter of fact, Drift had never seen him so furious, and he fervently hoped that he hadn’t made a terrible mistake in embarrassing him this way. But he still held to his determination to change Ratchet’s mind, to convince him that being chosen as his Victor’s Prize was a good thing, not something humiliating.  _Please, Primus,_  Drift prayed fervently, hoping that winning the Race really did mean that Primus was in the mood to show him favor,  _please let me find a way to change his mind!_

The news conference took less than half the time of the photo shoot, but it was still after sunset by the time Optimus stood and thanked them for their time, and no one ever brought Drift the promised energon. Drift scrambled to his feet anyway, trying to hide a wince as he did it. He’d run the same amount of cool-down laps as the other racers, but after spending hours standing in one position for the photos and then sitting still for the press conference, he was stiffening up badly. Put that on top of the aches from the accumulated strains and injuries of the race and the way his entire frame throbbed from the stress of running his engine harder than he ever had in his entire life, and it all added up to this: Drift was  _hurting._

 _It’s worth it,_ he told himself as he followed Optimus out of the press room and did his best not to limp too noticeably in front of the cameras.  _It’ll all be worth it when I finally get to be alone with Ratchet and tell him how I feel._

A new set of handlers intercepted him just outside the doors. “Could I please get some energon?” he asked them as Optimus left and they guided him into a new set of rooms. This one contained a huge, open washracks, and while he was thrilled at the opportunity to finally get cleaned up, he’d finished the Race on fumes and that had been hours ago by now. His tanks were cramping with emptiness.

“You already need more?” one of the clipboard-wielding attendants said incredulously while two others doused him in cleaner and started in on him with scrub brushes.

He winced. The heated wash of cleanser over his frame felt good but it felt like they were trying to strip him down to the metal with those brushes and he was  _sore,_  dammit. “Everyone keeps saying that. I haven’t  _had_  any energon yet!” he said, and then he was spun around and pushed beneath a spray hot enough to make him yelp.

“--will get you something after this,” the attendant was saying when he was tugged back between the two scrubbers for another working-over.

He hissed and flinched away from them when they got a little too enthusiastic next to a bruised thigh fender. “Ow! You know, I can do this myself,” he said, flinching the other direction when they instantly jabbed at another painful place over a cracked headlight.

“No time,” one of the scrubbers told him flatly she spun him around and yanked one arm up so her partner could get beneath it. “The Prime’s waiting and you’re way behind schedule.”

“Not my fault!” he protested, trying to bring his arm down a little because that joint didn’t really want to bend that far right now. She responded by shoving it right back up again. “And I know Optimus, I’m in the Primal Vanguard. He’s patient, I’m sure he--”

“We’ve got a  _schedule,_ ” his first attendant interrupted sternly. “And if you would just  _be still,_  we could get this over with and try to make up for lost time, so if you please?” Drift swallowed his protests and let them get on with it.

Slightly better was the detailing that followed. He was pleasantly surprised to recognize Sunstreaker from the last Festival of Primus, and even if he didn’t say much to Drift beyond a request that he stand as still as possible, he was a lot gentler with him than the washracks team had been. By the time he was done with Drift, his paint had been touched up so perfectly that he could barely tell where his original paint job ended and Sunstreaker’s work started. “Good, now stand just like that for five minutes--don’t move, don’t even speak,” the yellow mech instructed as he sprayed him down with a quick-setting high-gloss sealant.

The soft buffing after Sunstreaker checked him critically and declared him dry felt divine even if it was much too short for Drift’s liking.  _This_  was more what he’d anticipated being a Victor would be like, even if no one still brought him any energon. “Could one of you get me some fuel?” he asked while a team of four polished him to a mirror shine, wishing he’d thought to ask Sunstreaker before he’d left. Of all the mecha he’d dealt with since leaving the Podium, he’d been the nicest.

“What, you need more?” one of the detailers asked, and Drift started to explain  _again_  that he wasn’t asking for  _more,_  he was just asking for  _any at all_  when Optimus Prime himself entered the room.

“Are we nearly ready here? Holding the parade route open so long past the estimated time is straining city resources,” he said, and while he said it perfectly calmly, it sent everyone in the room into a frenzy.

“Yes, Prime, we’re finished!” the lead detailer immediately said, and Drift snatched up a cloth and rubbed the wax off his left audial himself as he was all but shoved out of the room.

But while he was finally reunited with Ratchet then, Drift still didn’t get even a moment alone with him. Instead, he was ushered toward a large, open carriage. He recognized it from prior Festivals as the one he would share with Ratchet and Optimus Prime for the Victor’s Parade along the race route through Iacon. “Drift, sit here,” yet another handler said, pointing to a long seat at the front of the carriage, and he started to climb up without bothering to ask for energon this time because he didn’t think he had another repetition of the  _wait, you want more?_  argument in him.

“Hold on, wait a second!”

The handler pushed him but Drift pretended not to notice. He turned toward the voice and saw Blurr rush over with a small cube of energon in his hands. “Here, Sunny said you looked famished,” he said, and chuckled when Drift grabbed it and downed it in huge, desperate gulps. “Yeah, thought so. They forgot to give me any fuel too. Everyone thinks someone else will do it and no one does. Better?”

“Yes,” Drift said breathlessly as Blurr took the empty cube back. It wasn’t nearly enough to sate his cramping tank but it was infinitely better than nothing. Once he’d been used to running hard on low fuel but that had been a very long time ago, and it wasn’t a feeling he’d ever wanted to revisit. The relief of finally getting some fuel was wonderful but having someone actually treat him like a person instead of a prize show turbofox to be put through his paces was nearly enough to make cleanser well in his optics. “Thank you.”

Blurr smiled and clasped his shoulder, but gently, mindful of his soreness in a way no one else had been. “Do it for the next Victor and we’ll call it even. Chin up, Drift. Bad part’s nearly done and then you get to the good stuff, and that’s worth all the rest of it--trust me, I know,” he said with an exaggerated, leering wink. Drift remembered how he’d managed to finagle not one but _two_ mates out of his own victory and found his first real smile in hours. Blurr chuckled and patted his shoulder while the attendant fumed. “There you go, mech, now you look like a Victor. Just remember why you did all this nonsense, all right? Now get up there before your handlers shoot me for making you fall behind  _schedule_.” He said the word like it tasted bad and Drift chuckled as he got into the carriage while Blurr transformed and moved into his position just ahead of the carriage.

Even better was when a pair of sleek speedsters drove up to flank the racer--Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, the spark-split twins who Blurr had had the steel bearings to claim counted as one conjunx endura. And he’d gotten away with it, too. They made a striking triad and seeing how well it had worked out for the last Victor gave Drift a much-needed injection of hope.

Maybe in fifty vorns, he’d be in Blurr’s place with an ambulance by his side and a new Victor behind them, as overwhelmed and stunned by it all as Drift was now.

But Ratchet wasn’t beside him at all yet. Optimus Prime had followed him into the carriage and sat down right between him and Ratchet, and Drift was seriously starting to wonder if the universe was conspiring to keep him from exchanging so much as a word with his chosen mate. He assumed Ratchet was on the Prime’s other side but Drift couldn’t see past his bulk, and the carriage jerked into motion before he could lean around him to look.

The defeated racers joined in the parade, along with many of the VIPs who had been present during the photo shoot. The noise of the cheering crowd pounded at him, making his already-aching processor hurt even worse. Drift had driven this route two hundred times today and every lap had taken him only a few minutes, but now it took them well over an hour to make a single loop. His brief good mood didn’t last much beyond the first corner. Drift smiled, and waved, and his joints stiffened further, and the fuel Blurr brought him had helped but his tanks were still aching with hunger, and for as many times as Drift had imagined how much he would savor all these celebrations if he won, right now all he wanted was to  _get to the end of it_.

But now,  _finally_ , the moment was nearly here. The parade had ended at last at the gates of the lavish Victor’s Mansion that was part of his prize package. Drift had been much too nervous to listen when Optimus Prime had listed everything that was included in that package, but it had to be extensive judging by how many sponsors he’d taken photos with earlier. All that mattered to Drift was that this mansion was his home now, and that Ratchet would share it with him for the next year.

Winning the Race of Primus had guaranteed Drift only that: a year in shared space to make his case to the mech he loved. He had won nothing but a chance. But Drift planned to make the very most of that chance and do everything in his power to convince Ratchet that he could make him happy, that he might’ve been nothing when they’d first met but that he’d remade himself into someone who was worthy of his love.

All he needed now was for everyone else to  _leave_  so he could get started.

Optimus Prime stood and stepped down from the carriage, and offered his hand to first Ratchet, and then Drift to help them down before preceding them up the long walk. Drift’s knees started to shake and it had nothing to do with pain or hunger now. Ratchet walked right beside him, gaze fixed on Optimus’ back, and Drift tried to do the same thing but he couldn’t help stealing glances over at him, admiring the mech he’d loved for so long, wondering what he was thinking.

Wondering if he was as nervous right now as Drift was, or if he was still furious with him for calling his name.

Ratchet’s faceplates gave nothing of his private thoughts away, but then he had experience in keeping his feelings concealed as a doctor. Drift tried to emulate him just in case there were still news cameras pointed their way. He clenched his jaw to keep it from trembling and concentrated on matching the Prime’s steady footsteps, but that was impossible with his shorter stride. Instead he matched his steps to Ratchet’s, which was a much better fit even if he couldn’t fully eliminate his limp anymore.

Optimus climbed the steps to the enormous front door and opened it. Ratchet didn’t say anything to either of them before stepping inside. Drift followed on shaking legs and started to follow the medic into his new home-- _their_ new home--but Optimus stopped him with one hand on his shoulder. He wanted to scream at yet  _another_ delay, but this was the Prime, and his employer, and the physical representation of the god whose Race Drift had just won, and not least of all, Optimus was someone he admired deeply. So Drift managed to find one last smile and waited for him to speak with all the patience he could muster.

But Optimus didn’t speak, not at first. Instead he held Drift’s gaze in silence until the speedster’s smile faltered. That face-shield gave nothing away and his optics never did either, and he had long since mastered the art of keeping his EM field neutrally blank. Drift had no idea what he was waiting for, but when he glanced through the door to see that Ratchet had made it almost all the way to the big staircase on the other side of the entryway, Optimus squeezed his shoulder just this side of too-tight and Drift quickly looked back up at him. “Yes, sir?” he said, keeping his tone as polite as possible but hoping that a little verbal prod would help him to get on with it because he  _needed_  to talk to Ratchet and he didn’t think he was physically up to chasing him through this enormous place to do it.

Optimus stared at him for a moment more before he finally spoke, and when he did, his voice was very low and quiet. “Drift,” he said in that deep growl of his, “… be careful.”

Drift’s mouth dropped open before he could stop it. He snapped it closed again before managing to find his voice. “Y-yes, sir,” he said helplessly, the only thing he could possibly think of to say in response to what had come out sounding very much like a threat.

But it must have been inadvertent, because why would Optimus Prime be trying to intimidate him? No, he was probably trying to give him advice. Yes, that was the most likely explanation--Optimus was advising him to be careful with Ratchet, not to rush him. It had probably only sounded so alarming because Optimus Prime’s voice was naturally so very deep. That had to be it, but when Optimus released his shoulder, Drift darted through the door with the distinct feeling that he’d just barely escaped.

And then the door finally closed behind Drift, locking the rest of the world out and leaving him alone with Ratchet at long last. This was the reason he’d done all of this, so he could finally tell Ratchet how he felt, and nothing else mattered.

But Ratchet was halfway up the stairs by now and didn’t look the least bit inclined to give Drift a chance to tell him anything at all. A jolt rocked Drift’s system and he found that he did have the energy to chase him after all. “Ratchet, wait!” he cried, hurrying across the wide entryway after him. “I know you’re angry--”

“Not tonight, Drift,” Ratchet said without even turning around, but he didn’t sound angry.

He sounded impossibly, unutterably weary, like even getting those three words out was almost more than he could manage.

Drift stumbled at the foot of the steps but forced his stiff legs to move faster. “But,” he said, desperately trying to think of anything that could tempt Ratchet to stay just a little longer so he could talk to him, so he could apologize and make him understand, “but surely you need some fuel, right? We could find where they keep the energon in this place and--”

“I’ve had fuel. I’ve done nothing but sit around all afternoon while everyone kept bringing me fuel. I don’t need more damn fuel,” Ratchet replied, even delivering the curse in that same spiritless, despondent tone. “All I need is for today to be over.”

Drift stared up at his back as Ratchet reached the landing, and he tried to hurry even more. Primus, this was worse than he’d ever imagined. Ratchet didn’t want to talk to him, wouldn’t so much as _look_  at him, and all Drift could do was keep trying. “Ratchet--”

“Drift, please.” Ratchet just kept moving, steps dragging, not even turning to face him. “Not tonight,  _please_. Tomorrow’s soon enough for you to explain why you told me not to say yes up there. Right now I don’t  _care_ , all right?”

Ratchet’s words echoed in Drift’s processor, absolutely incomprehensible no matter how many times he replayed them. He made it to the top of the steps on autopilot before he managed to process it.

And when he did, when Drift finally understood what Ratchet had just told him, the realization stole the strength from his legs.

_Ratchet had been planning to say yes. He’d been about to agree to be Drift’s conjunx endura--_

_\--and Drift had stopped him and told him not to._

He’d had everything he wanted right in front of him and he’d fragged it all up before Ratchet could give it to him. His vents froze and he crashed to his knees as his spark clenched tight with horror. “Oh no,” Drift whispered, “oh no no no, oh  _Primus_  no…”

Ratchet half-turned when Drift fell, giving him a glimpse of his face for only an instant before he turned back around and started walking again, but that instant was enough for him to see the dimness of his optics and how much worse he looked now than he had when Drift had caught sight of him before the race this morning.

And he’d already looked terrible then, haggard and broken-sparked, and Drift finally understood why.

 _I did that,_  Drift thought, his own spark cracking.  _I did that to him._

He should’ve told Ratchet yesterday that he was racing for him. He’d wanted his declaration to be a surprise so Ratchet couldn’t stop him from entering, but instead, Drift had made him think he was racing for someone else. There was no relief or happiness to realize that Ratchet had to care about him to react this strongly, because all he could see was how deeply he'd hurt him.

All he could think was  _I won the race and I might have just lost him anyway._

And Ratchet was still walking away, searching for a berthroom, for a place to lock himself away from Drift so he couldn’t hurt him anymore. “Ratchet, I love you!” Drift cried when Ratchet reached out for a doorknob. It wasn’t how he’d wanted to tell him, wasn’t anything like he’d planned, but he was abruptly certain that if Ratchet got a door between them right now, Drift would never get another chance to make this right.

Ratchet went perfectly still, freezing in place, hand still outstretched. Drift heard him start to speak and beat him to it. Not even trying to hide his desperation, he blurted, “I thought you were going to say no, Ratchet, I swear to Primus I did, you were so angry when you got to the Podium, you fought the whole way there and I’ve never seen you that angry and I swear that I thought you were going to tell me no, oh Primus, oh Primus please, I never would’ve stopped you if I’d thought you were going to say anything else, please Ratchet, you have to believe me, I’ll do anything to prove it to you, please,  _please--_ ”

Ratchet’s shoulders hunched and he still didn’t turn around, but he didn’t open that door, either. Finally he said in a voice so soft that Drift barely heard it even from this close, “Victor’s prize has two options, Drift.  _No_  isn’t one of them.”

Oh thank Primus, Ratchet was speaking to him. Drift struggled unsteadily to his feet and dared a single step closer. “Since when do you do anything you don’t want to do?” he asked, and while his voice still shook from that surge of terror, he was at least able to stop himself from babbling now. “Please believe me, Ratchet, when you got up there and told Optimus Prime that you were going to kill me for this and clenched your fists like that, I thought--”

“Ironhide,” Ratchet interrupted, and Drift’s voice died with a crackle of static as he suddenly wondered if Ratchet and the big bodyguard were a couple instead of just the close friends he’d always assumed they were. But before panic could really take hold again, Ratchet went on. “I was angry about Ironhide throwing me to the crowd, Drift.”

Relief weakened his struts again but this time Drift managed to stay upright. He risked one more step, and when Ratchet didn’t flinch or tell him to stop, another one. “I love you, Ratchet,” he repeated, and this time he said it like he’d always imagined: softly, honestly, backing it up with his EM field. “I’ve always loved you but I knew I was never good enough for you. I did all this so I could finally tell you how I feel. That’s the only Prize I ever cared about.”

Ratchet exvented in a rush and slumped against the door, and Drift darted forward and caught him by the shoulders before he could fall. The instant he touched him, Ratchet’s EM field washed over him in a chaotic storm of emotion so tangled that he couldn’t read anything at all from it.

But he understood all he needed to from Ratchet resting his helm on Drift’s shoulder instead of pushing him away, and Drift finally started to breathe again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, daring to wrap his arms fully around Ratchet now, and even though he didn’t return Drift’s embrace, he didn’t pull away, either. “Oh Primus, I’m so sorry.”

Ratchet didn’t reply, just vented shakily and stood there in his arms, and Drift remembered how much he had wanted this day to just be over. Well, Drift had done everything else wrong today, but he could get this much right. He held Ratchet tighter, feeling the exhaustion in his trembling frame, and then freed a hand to reach behind him and open the door. “Come on. Let’s get you to the berth so you can rest. Tomorrow is soon enough for anything else, all right?”

Ratchet didn’t resist when Drift led him through the door, didn’t even lift his head from his shoulder. He let Drift settle him on the berth and groaned softly when his heavy, reinforced frame sank slightly into the plush surface. Drift pulled the coverings up over him and murmured, “Goodnight, Ratchet,” as he turned to go.

But Ratchet caught his wrist before he could leave. “Stay?” he asked softly, and Drift’s spark leapt in its chamber. He turned back to look down at Ratchet, a dim shadow lit only by their biolights, and Ratchet’s grip loosened until his hand almost fell completely away from Drift’s wrist. Drift caught his hand and squeezed, and that contact seemed to give Ratchet the strength to speak again. “Not to… not for that, but just stay. Will you? Please.”

Drift raised his hand and kissed his fingertips. “Yes, of course I’ll stay,” he whispered. Drift still needed fuel but he didn’t care, not at a time like this. Not when Ratchet scooted over to give him room to lie beside him, holding the coverings up as he slid beneath them, accepting him, _welcoming_ him. He had barely gotten settled before Ratchet pressed against his side and rested his helm on his shoulder, and didn’t protest when Drift wrapped both arms around him in return.

No, there was no way Drift was leaving this for something as minor as fuel, and he closed his optics and held the mech he loved until they both slipped into recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blurr, Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker appear courtesy of ladydragon76's fic [Race of Primus](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4651128), which is also in the [Festival of the Five collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/The_Festival_Of_The_Five). Thanks for letting me play with your toys, ladydragon! XD


	4. Finish Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I made it perfectly clear in the last chapter, but the mech the Victor chooses has two options of how to answer. They can accept outright, in which case the week-long Festival will end with their conjunx ceremony, or they can ask for a year of companionship to decide, which they will spend living in the Victor's Mansion with the Victor. Cohabiting is the only requirement--they get their own room, they are not required to 'face them or anything else. Saying a flat NO is not an option. Hope that helps!

The first thing Ratchet became aware of was most beautiful EM field he had ever felt, buoying him into wakefulness in waves of emotion that were almost unreal in their purity.

Joy.

Contentment.

_Love._

The projections were intense without being overwhelming, and he let himself be lulled by it. Ratchet had never felt anything so blissfully, wholly  _happy_  as this field. He’d never experienced such perfect happiness himself, didn’t know it was  _possible_  to be so happy, and he didn’t want to wake up if it meant he lost it. Ratchet’s processor pinged him with a memory file but he didn’t access it, choosing to stay in this perfect state of peace for as long as he possibly could.

The field was so soothing that it took what seemed like a long time before he realized that the wonderful projections weren’t the only thing that had awakened him from recharge.

He wasn’t alone in this berth, but that revelation brought no unease. Then again, he could tell by their field that they meant him no harm at all. Instead, they held him close and softly stroked his helm, fingertips brushing over his plating in a ghost of a caress almost too light to be felt. They touched him like a lover despite his interface array reporting dormancy. Whoever held him on this berth that was much too soft to be Ratchet’s own, whoever’s gorgeous EM field surrounded him, he hadn’t ‘faced them.

The memory file pinged him again, more insistently this time, but Ratchet remained strangely reluctant to open it. Instead, he carefully maintained his own field’s neutral projections and the slow, steady rhythm of his vents as he onlined his optics just enough to see who held him with such reverent affection.

At first he didn’t understand what he was looking at. But then his optics shifted focus and he realized that the wall of white in front of him was actually the side of a helm, very close up. One long, sharp audial flare lay less than a hand’s breadth from his face, a thicker, curved facial vent running beneath it.

Ratchet’s vents froze as he completely forgot about feigning sleep.

_Drift._

The speedster’s hands stilled in their caresses and then retreated as he clearly noticed Ratchet’s awakening, but even worse, that amazing, beautiful, euphoric field tensed with apprehension and started to withdraw, too. Ratchet instinctively clutched Drift closer. This had to be a dream, and he’d had many versions of this dream that all ended before he was ready. He wasn’t about to let this one get away before it got to the best part.

He reached up, found Drift’s jaw, and pulled him around and into a deep, demanding kiss.

Drift’s entire frame stilled for a split second, just long enough for Ratchet to feel an instant’s trepidation. But that fraction of a second was the only hesitation Drift showed before he whimpered into Ratchet’s mouth, yearning and breathless and almost impossibly gorgeous, the sexiest sound he had ever heard.

And then Drift gripped Ratchet’s wrist tight and kissed him back, his entire frame shuddering like it thrilled him to the depths of his spark when their glossas met for the first time, as though he’d been secretly aching for this as long and as fiercely as Ratchet had. Ratchet moaned as he realized that his other hand was on Drift’s waist, right over the gorgeous red-and-white stripes that he’d admired so avidly and for so very long. He couldn’t resist stroking his fingertips over those faint ridges as he slid his hand around to cup the nape of his neck, surrendering to the heat racing through his frame and kissing Drift with all the desire he’d fought to hide for so long.

Drift’s field surged back to life, rushing over him in waves of passion and astonishment and almost painfully desperate hope. He kissed him back eagerly, so much better than anything Ratchet could ever have imagined. His frame heated and his processor spun, and even though Drift touched him nowhere but his lips and that one hand on his wrist, Ratchet burned from head to toe.

No kiss had ever been this incredible.

And no dream could ever feel this real.

Reluctantly, oh, so very reluctantly, Ratchet broke the kiss and loosened his hold on Drift’s waist and the nape of his neck. The speedster didn’t pull back at first, almost as though he had to force himself to do so. He panted lightly as their mouths separated at last and Ratchet shivered at the caress of heated air over his faceplates. He got his optics back online to see Drift so close with his own optics still closed, lips parted, expression awed and dazed in equal measure. “Oh, wow,” Drift whispered breathlessly, and Ratchet thought he had never seen  _anything_  so beautiful in all his life.

And then Drift opened his optics and looked at him with his spark shining from their glowing depths, making no effort at all to hide from his view. Ratchet’s own spark shook in its casing from the wonder of having that much adoration all focused on  _him._ The intensity of it stole his voice, and that memory file unpacked before he could deny it again.

_The Race._

_Drift’s victory._

_Ironhide helping him to get away, then throwing him to the crowd so he could be passed like a parcel down to the Victor’s Podium._

_Everything that had come after, how Drift’s words on the Podium had sent him into a downward spiral of confusion and despair._

_And finally Drift falling to his knees, the horror in his field and the desperation in his voice as he’d shouted_ Ratchet, I love you! _and begged him for another chance. He’d begged with no pride or hesitation, all but sobbing the words like his world was shattering around him, his fear that Ratchet wouldn’t believe him too stark to be anything but real._

Ratchet stared up at him now, stunned speechless all over again by the memories, and Drift smiled as he stroked his thumb over the thin plating of his inner wrist. “That was so much better than anything I even dared to wish for,” he whispered, still looking at him with those beautiful optics glowing with love and his field now full of cautious, fragile hope.

Hope that Ratchet really could forgive him for everything that had gone wrong between them over the last two days, that he would give him another chance.

Caution because it would destroy him if Ratchet didn’t. Drift wasn’t even trying to hide it.

And Ratchet was afraid to give him that chance because he knew now exactly how much it hurt to lose him. Yesterday’s emotional agony was nothing he ever wanted to experience again. But looking up at Drift now with his lips still tingling from that incredible kiss and his field buzzing with the memory of how completely, blissfully happy Drift had been just to  _hold_  him, Ratchet found the strength to push aside his instinctive tendency toward self-preservation.

He would give Drift his chance, frightening as it was to even contemplate, because the possible reward far outweighed any benefit of safety.

Somehow Ratchet managed to get his vocalizer back online despite his spark feeling like it was trying to climb up his throat. “Thought waking up beside you was a dream,” he admitted, the words emerging hoarsely. “Wanted to get at least one kiss before it ended.”

Drift smiled, slow and sweet, and let his helm sink down until his forehelm crest rested against Ratchet’s chevron. “If this is a dream,” he murmured, “I don’t  _ever_  want it to end.”

Ratchet’s vents stuttered. Even in his own dreams, Drift had never said anything like that to him, and he struggled to come up with anything to say other than _oh sweet Primus, you really mean that, don’t you_  because Drift’s unrestrained field clearly showed how much he  _did_  mean it.

But Drift spoke again before he could figure out how to reply to that. “Are you all right?”

“You’re the one who just put his engine through the wringer and you’re asking  _me_  that?” Ratchet replied incredulously. “I think the more important question here is how are  _you?_ ”

Drift caressed his wrist again, stroking one fingertip over the sensitive metal. “I’m good. First Aid came by yesterday and fixed my shoulder, and he said my self-repair will take care of most of the rest of it. I’m sore, and I wouldn’t say I’m exactly eager to do anything like that ever again,” he added with a little groan, “but I’ll be fine. Now your turn. How are you feeling?”

“… better,” Ratchet answered after a short pause to assess his own condition. The uninterrupted recharge had done wonders for his systems, and waking up to Drift holding him close and looking at him like he was everything he’d ever wanted had done wonders for that awful, crushing sparkache--and that didn't even count that _kiss_. “Wouldn’t ever want to do that again, but I’ll be fine,” he added, and Drift chuckled.

But then Drift’s words replayed in Ratchet’s processor and he said, “Wait a minute. First Aid came by  _yesterday?_ ”

Drift pulled back with clear reluctance and nodded. “Yes, he came to see me first thing in the morning yesterday. You’ve been in recharge for almost thirty hours, Ratchet. I didn’t want to wake you--you looked like you needed it and First Aid said it was the best thing for you, so I just let you rest. Here, I’ve got some energon right here for you, I’m sure you need some by now.”

He sat up and reached for the berthside cabinet as Ratchet gaped at him. “Thirty hours?” he echoed, sure that he had to have heard that wrong. Drift nodded as he turned back with a cube in each hand, but he still hadn’t managed to close his mouth by the time Drift offered him one of them. “ _Thirty. Hours?_ ”

“You looked like you needed it,” Drift said again, like it was that simple.

Ratchet pushed himself up into a sitting position too but didn’t take the energon despite his tank pinging almost empty. “Drift, we were supposed to… there are appearances, Festival events,” he finally managed. “We’re obligated to attend most of them together. Didn’t they tell you?”

Drift smiled and nudged his hand with one of the cubes until Ratchet took it. He pointedly waited until Ratchet started to drink it before he answered. “Oh, don’t worry, they told me,” he said dryly. “Repeatedly. They started off asking, then tried demanding, and then begging, and finally threatened all kinds of dire punishments and fines and I don’t even know what all else if we didn't go with them. I told them to frag off, we weren’t going because your health is more important than their  _schedule,_  and the reporters were welcome to quote me on that. Then they sent Optimus Prime to get us and I told him the same thing, only, you know, quite a bit more nicely. I said we weren’t going because you were exhausted and I wasn’t going to interrupt your rest just so everyone could gawk at us.”

Ratchet nearly choked on his fuel. “You…” he said weakly. “You sent  _Optimus_  away?” Drift nodded and he could do nothing but stare. Dismissing a Prime at all was no easy task, and that wasn't even counting their amica bond. Ratchet could only imagine how hard Optimus had pushed to see him after how upset Ratchet had been after the Race, especially since he hadn't explained _why_.

“Yes. I wasn’t going to wake you up for anything. And honestly, Prime took it a lot better than the Festival staff did once I explained how badly you needed the recharge,” Drift said as he gestured for Ratchet to keep drinking. “He just told me to have you comm him when you woke up and--”

He stopped speaking so fast that he nearly bit his glossa. Ratchet raised an eyebrow at him as his field retreated in embarrassment, and Drift avoided his optics as he started drinking his own energon a little too fast. “He said for me to comm him and what else?” he prompted when it became clear that Drift wasn’t planning on finishing that sentence.

Drift kept on drinking, but when his fuel was gone, he had no further excuses not to answer. He lowered the cube with clear reluctance. "Drift," Ratchet growled pointedly and he nearly squirmed.

“Um,” Drift said, looking down at the empty cube instead of at Ratchet, “he… ah, he may have mentioned that it wouldn’t go well for me if I wasn’t being honest about why I wouldn’t let anyone see you.” The last words were little more than a mumble. “It was a good thing for me that First Aid had seen you earlier and backed me up that you were all right. He’s a lot more protective of you than I’d anticipated.” He looked distinctly nervous about it, too. “Is there any possibility that he… I mean, I know you’re good friends, but was it ever something more than that?”

Ratchet snorted, which was clearly not the reaction Drift had expected. “No, he’s not jealous.” Drift looked up in surprise at the absolute surety of his tone and Ratchet finished off his own fuel before saying, “I know you’re aware that I have an amica, Drift. Did you never wonder why I don’t talk about who it is?”

Drift choked and Ratchet couldn’t help it. He laughed, and then clapped a hand over his mouth to hold it in. Drift hardly seemed to notice, though. He was too busy looking ill. “Oh Primus, he’s gonna  _kill_  me,” he breathed, horrified.

“Don’t worry, Drift, I’ll call him off,” Ratchet said when he had himself under control again. “Optimus can be protective, but he’s not going to hurt you just because you turned him away at the door.”

But that only made Drift’s shoulders slump even more. “How about because I hurt you?” he said softly, staring back down at the empty cube as his field filled with grief.

Ratchet took the cube from him and dispersed its field. Then he squeezed one of Drift’s hands to cover that he didn’t know how to respond to that.

Drift squeezed back tight and spoke into the silence. “Ratchet, I am more sorry that I can ever tell you for putting you through that. The very last thing I  _ever_  wanted to do was hurt you, but I did, and not just a little. I know I can’t take it back and I can’t change it, but I swear that I will never hurt you like that again, and I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Ratchet hadn’t meant to ask but the words slipped out before he could stop them, and now that he’d asked, he couldn’t help continuing. “When you came to see me in my office, why didn’t you just  _say_ something?”

“I was afraid,” Drift said softly. “I didn’t think there was any way you could feel anything for me. I… I was afraid you’d tell me you weren’t interested, not to waste my time. I kept trying to ask you out and you never… well. The point is, I know you’re way out of my league, and this was the only way I could think of to try to make myself worthy of you.”

Ratchet’s spark ached at the sincerity in his voice. He remembered the very first time he’d heard Drift speak in this tone--back in his office, when he’d spoken of the mech he loved, the one he was racing to honor.  _He_ is _worth it--he’s worth everything in the universe._

The realization that Drift had been talking about  _him_  was almost enough to overwhelm Ratchet all over again, but the memory of the last time he’d spoken like this nearly stole his voice.

_I’ve always loved you but I knew I was never good enough for you. I did all this so I could finally tell you how I feel._

Ratchet reset his vocalizer and ignored the static behind his words as he laced their fingers together and said, “That's not why I turned you down, Drift. I never believed you were asking me out in that way because I’ve always thought  _you_ were out of  _my_  league, and I didn't want to get my hopes up only to get hurt,” he said, and Drift’s helm snapped up in shock. Ratchet gave him a rueful smile. “I don’t know why you look so surprised. You’re in the Primal Vanguard, elite of the elite, handpicked by Optimus Prime himself, and you’re a drop-dead gorgeous speedster model on top of that. There’s a reason why so many movies and trashy romances feature mechs just like you, you know. You're a fantasy and I’m just an ambulance, Drift. I’m good at what I do, but nothing about me is glamorous. I don’t exactly have  _Playmech_  knocking on my door to put my old frame on a centerfold, and I’m well aware that my personality leaves a lot to be desi--”

“You are the most handsome mech I’ve ever seen and your personality is  _perfect,_ ” Drift interrupted hotly. “You save lives. More than lives, you save  _sparks_. What you do is the most important thing there  _is,_  Ratchet! How is that not glamorous? I'm hardly a fantasy--I'm gutter-trash in a shiny package. All I’m good for is driving fast and hurting people.”

“Don't you ever let me hear you call yourself that again, you hear me? That is  _not_  who you are!” Ratchet growled back, ignoring the heat in his faceplates at Drift’s view of him. “You want to talk about saving people? How about when you jumped in front of that assassin to save Optimus’ life?”

It hadn’t been their first meeting--that had been centuries earlier in the Dead End, when Orion Pax had found Drift after an overdose that was maybe really a suicide attempt and brought him to Ratchet--but it had been the first time he’d seen the speedster in many years. The newly-made Optimus Prime had been making one of his first public appearances at the opening of a state-of-the-art medical center in Iacon, and Ratchet had attended in his official capacity as well. The ceremony had gone off without a hitch and the two of them were standing in front of the new sign for photos when an attacker burst out of a hidden compartment inside it, screaming a protest slogan with a glowing energy blade held high.

Those highly illegal daggers could cut through armor like water and Ratchet hadn’t stopped to think before throwing himself in front of his amica, shielding him with his own frame. But then a white-and-red blur darted in front of  _him_  before that blade could pierce his chest. Drift had taken the dagger in his upper chest, piercing all the way through his body. Thanks to his intervention, the blade’s protruding tip had only lightly scratched Ratchet’s breastplate instead of impaling him through the spark. And even unarmed, wounded, and bleeding heavily, Drift had instantly tackled the much larger would-be assassin, preventing him from detonating the bomb strapped to his chassis and restraining him until the Vanguard rushed in and took over.

Ratchet owed Drift his life and his amica’s life too, as well as all the innocent sparks in the crowd that Drift had saved that day, and that was a debt he could never repay. “Optimus was so impressed by your bravery that he personally offered you a place in the Vanguard after that. How do you think anyone could _ever_ look at you and think you were less than worthy?”

Drift looked down at their linked hands for a moment before he met Ratchet’s optics again. “I didn’t do that to protect him, Ratchet,” he said softly. “I did it for  _you_. The only reason I was even there was because I knew you would be and I thought maybe I could talk to you.”

For a moment, all Ratchet could do was stare at him. Had Drift really loved him for so long? He raised his other hand and cupped his cheek, and Drift sighed and leaned into the caress. Ratchet traced his lower lip with the pad of his thumb. Drift shivered as his lips parted and that was the last bit of temptation that he could take. “Drift,” he murmured, his voice rough and much lower than normal, “I’m going to kiss you again. And this time I’m not going to stop until you ask me to.”

Drift’s optics blazed with renewed desire. “Ratchet,” he whispered, “I’m never going to ask you to.”

Ratchet vented out shakily and pulled him close, but unlike the kiss they’d shared earlier, now he took his time. He brushed his lips over Drift’s, relishing their softness against his, the way they trembled when he went back for more--soft, teasing kisses, gentle and slow, and yet still utterly thrilling. He could happily savor Drift like this for hours.

And then Drift released his hand and slid his palms up to Ratchet’s shoulders, and that was all it took to kick his fans on and ignite a need for  _more_. He kissed Drift more firmly this time and flicked the tip of his glossa over the tender seam of his lips.

Drift opened for him without hesitation and suckled at his lower lip. Ratchet inhaled sharply and wrapped his arm around the speedster’s waist, curling his fingers over the dip and curve where waist became hip. Drift whimpered again, just as impossibly sexy as before, and Ratchet pulled him against his frame and this time when he kissed him, he stopped teasing.

Drift moaned as his field flared with approval. Ratchet stroked his glossa over Drift’s and shuddered--he tasted of the fuel they’d shared, but beneath it was the clean flavor that was solely his, something no fantasy or dream could ever supply. He did it again, and again, and  _again_ , chasing every bit of the energon until Drift was all he could taste. The speedster was clinging to his shoulders now, his own fans on and his vents going as fast as Ratchet’s, their fields meshing in heat and energy, pleasure and need.

And then he tightened his grip on Ratchet’s shoulders and slowly lay back onto the berth, drawing the medic down with him in an invitation that needed no words, all without ever once breaking the kiss.

Ratchet went willingly and groaned as his plating slid against Drift’s sleek frame. Part of him still couldn’t believe this was really happening, that he was here, in Drift’s berth, kissing him like he’d always yearned to while the speedster urged him on with those beautiful little keening moans. The rest of him, though, was eager to believe, and he deliberately pushed the doubts away. Likewise, he chose to put aside the pain and misunderstandings they’d been through. None of that had any place here. All that mattered was that this  _was_  real--he was really here and it was because Drift wanted him, loved him, had won the Race of Primus in his name and declared his intentions before all of Cybertron.

And Ratchet planned to make him glad that he had.

He pulled away to scatter kisses along Drift’s jaw, down his throat. Drift’s grip on his shoulders tightened again for an instant before his hands slid over his chest, down his arms and back up again. Ratchet groaned out loud when Drift caressed the tires behind his shoulders for a moment before pressing a fingertip down alongside them, and he quickly pulled back. “Good or bad?” Drift whispered, hands hovering.

“Good,” Ratchet managed as his vocalizer crackled with static. “Oh slag, it’s good.”

Drift’s hands immediately returned as he purred with satisfaction. Ratchet abandoned his throat in favor of his mouth again, their kisses going deep and hot and passionate now as Drift pressed down into the recesses again. He let his own hands wander now, letting one elbow take most of his weight while the other hand returned to Drift’s waist. Drift shivered and arched beneath him, and Ratchet slid his hand up until he felt the seam where his chestplate met the protoform beneath. He dipped a fingertip inside to tease at the components and wires concealed there.

Drift gasped and his EM projections flashed with pleasure. “Good?” Ratchet whispered, and Drift whimpered and nodded emphatically. Oh, he made such gorgeous sounds, and Ratchet thought he could get used to hearing him like this. “Mmm, thought so,” he murmured smugly, and Drift laughed as he cupped the back of his helm and pulled him firmly down into the kiss again.

For as hot as they were both running now, Ratchet felt no inclination to rush, and Drift didn’t seem to, either. At some point Ratchet rolled onto his back, pulling his lover on top of him instead, and Drift responded by kissing every inch of his neck and chest while Ratchet caressed those beautiful helm finials. He’d known that they were full of sensors but not that Drift would make such wonderful sounds when they were stroked, and that was a discovery he thoroughly enjoyed. He wasn’t sure who lost the battle to keep their panel closed first, but when he felt the heat of Drift’s spike pressing against his hip, he couldn’t find it in him to care.

He spread his thighs and Drift pressed between them. “You’re sure?” Drift whispered, waiting for his answer despite how his frame trembled and his field burned with arousal and need.

“Never been more sure of anything in my life,” Ratchet said, and his voice cut out on a moan and a burst of static when he felt the tip of Drift’s spike pressing inside him. “Oh sweetspark, oh Drift, oh  _yes_ ,” he groaned, lifting his hips to urge him on.

Drift paused when he was buried deep, their arrays pressed flush together, and he rested his forehelm against Ratchet’s, venting heavily. “Love you,” he panted as he started to move. He kissed Ratchet before he could even try to reply, and by the time he pulled away, Ratchet had lost the ability to speak at all. He clung to Drift as the pleasure built and coiled inside him, fans roaring, moaning with each perfect thrust lighting up every node in his valve, freeing one hand to rub over a finial and savoring the way Drift cried out--

Ratchet’s overload hit him moments before Drift’s, the electrical discharge crackling between them in bright flashes of ecstasy as Ratchet shouted with the intensity of his release and Drift moaned his name over and over. When the pleasure passed, Drift collapsed on top of him and Ratchet held him tight, trying to get his processor working again.

And when he finally did, there was only one thing left to do. “Drift?” he murmured, thinking of those words he’d just said. It still blew him away that Drift loved him. He deserved to know that Ratchet loved him just as much.

But there was something better he could tell him.

Drift raised his head and smiled. “Hmm?”

Ratchet cupped his face in his hands and kissed him softly. “In the name of the Five… I accept.”

He would never forget watching the emotions change on Drift’s face. The sated lassitude of post-overload bliss vanished in an instant, to be replaced by wide-opticked disbelief. His mouth dropped open and worked soundlessly and Ratchet had to smile at how completely stunned he was, but his amusement faded when moisture welled up in his lover’s optics. “Drift?” he said, worried now. He’d thought that telling him what he’d meant to say up on the Podium would make him happy, not… not  _this._  “What’s wrong?”

Drift squeezed his optics shut and shook his head, then reached up to cover Ratchet’s hands with his own and hold on tight. “Nothing’s wrong,” he whispered at last, and even though the tears fell when he opened his optics and looked back at Ratchet, he gave him the most joyful smile he’d ever seen. He pressed a kiss into each of Ratchet’s hands and then laughed. “What could possibly be wrong? All my dreams just came true.”


	5. Victory Lap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY SWEET PRIMUS [LOOK AT THIS AMAZING ART](http://iopele.tumblr.com/post/131484587892/ephdraws-iopele-you-cant-just-put-shiny) FROM @EPHDRAWS, LOOK HOW GORGEOUS DRIFT IS IN HIS CEREMONIAL VICTOR'S PAINT! *faints*

“Ratchet, if you don’t stop distracting him, I’m going to kick your aft out of here.”

Ratchet chuckled. “You’re welcome to  _try,_  Sunstreaker,” he shot back, as completely unintimidated by the artist’s threat as he had been by all the glares that had preceded it. Drift started to laugh but thought better of it--that had been what had gotten him in trouble the last three times, after all--and stayed completely still instead. Sunstreaker had already had to remove and restart his chestplate decorations twice and he didn’t want to make him have to do so again.

The sooner he finished applying Drift’s ceremonial paint, the sooner Drift could move, and the sooner he could move, the sooner he could get Ratchet in his arms again. It had been entirely too long since he’d last kissed him.

Ratchet was clearly thinking the same thing if the look in his optics was anything to go by. His ceremonial paint, much less elaborate than Drift’s, had been finished hours ago. Now he circled Drift and he could swear he felt the heat of his gaze sliding over his plating. When Ratchet returned to stand in front of him, the desire in his optics sent a shiver down Drift’s spinal strut. Sunstreaker glared at him for the movement but Drift couldn’t tear his gaze away from the admiration in his lover’s expression.

Primus, he was never going to get used to seeing Ratchet look at him like that.

Ratchet shook his head as his optics devoured him. “Slag, sweetspark, you’re  _gorgeous_. I’m going to lock you away after this just to make sure no one steals you from me.”

Like anything could persuade him to leave Ratchet now that they were finally together. “No chance of that,” Drift assured him with a smile. "You're stuck with me forever."

Sunstreaker muttered something that sounded like  _I’m gonna puke_  but neither of them got a chance to respond.

“You two have done quite enough _locking away,_ don’t you think?”

Drift jumped at the deep, distinctive voice just behind him and this time Sunstreaker growled and jabbed his leg with the end of his paintbrush. “ _Be. Still!”_  he snarled as he wiped off the gold line he’d just painted on Drift’s chestplate for the third time.

It was only one of many such embellishments on his plating now. Sunstreaker had outlined his optics and lips in gold, emphasized his audial flares and helm crest with heavy gold lines, painted gold highlights along the transformation seams on his forearms and thighs, accentuated his red abdominal stripes with still more gold, and now he was meticulously painting the Symbol of Primus--a starburst around a golden spark--in the center of his chestplate. Drift felt somewhat ridiculous and very self-conscious painted up from helm to pede in all this gold, but the heated admiration in Ratchet’s gaze made it all worth it.

“Sorry,” Drift murmured to Sunstreaker, and did his best not to flinch as Optimus Prime walked into his view. It was difficult not to shiver again when he met those intense optics, but somehow he managed it. “Hello, sir,” he said, hoping his nervousness didn’t come through in his voice.

He couldn’t help it, though. This was as close as he’d been to Optimus since he’d denied him access to his own amica the day after the Race, and he seemed much larger and far more intimidating without thousands of mecha surrounding them.

Actually, Drift didn’t think he’d stopped being intimidated since Ratchet had finally called Optimus from their berth to let him know he was all right. Ratchet hadn’t asked for privacy when he’d called his amica, and while it was thrilling to hear Ratchet tell him that he’d changed his mind about the year waiting period, it had startled Drift to hear Ratchet call him  _Pax._

It was a name Drift could never forget, no more than he could forget Ratchet’s. Realizing that the same Orion Pax who had found him on the edge of death in that alley and brought him to Ratchet had gone on to become the Optimus Prime who Drift now served was utterly unreal.

And knowing that he and Ratchet had already been amica endurae even back then was incredibly unnerving. Drift had loved Ratchet ever since the moment he’d awakened in that Dead End clinic all those years ago and had first laid optics on the medic who had saved him, but that felt like nothing when he compared it to the bond these two shared. They had so much history between them, thousands of vorns of unbroken loyalty and trust and friendship. And while bonding with Ratchet wouldn’t give Drift any real connection to Optimus Prime, he couldn’t help but feel presumptuous for daring to set his sights so high.

He’d managed not to think about it during the other Festival appearances he and Ratchet had made together. It had been easy to forget such concerns in the wonder of discovering that Ratchet loved him, and to push them aside when dozens of mecha stood between him and the Prime, but those thoughts were much harder to push aside now that the three of them were together in this small room tucked away in the Grand Temple of Primus. Optimus Prime was power and dignity personified, as much an ideal as a bolts-and-steel mech. Drift had guarded and served him for almost a hundred vorns now, would gladly die to protect him, but he couldn’t help wondering if he would ever be truly comfortable in his presence.

Or if anything he could do would ever convince him that he was good enough for his amica.

“Drift,” Optimus greeted him in return, inclining his head slightly before turning and putting a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. “Ratchet. I trust I find you well, my friend.”

Ratchet clearly had no such worries as he smiled like he couldn’t help it. Drift had never seen such an unguarded expression of happiness on his face, and it was that look that made him willing to do whatever it took to win Optimus over. Drift would do  _anything_ to see the mech he loved look like that. “I’m about to take the Rite with this beautiful mech, Optimus, I don’t think I could possibly be better,” Ratchet replied as he looked Drift up and down again and his field filled with love and joy.

Optimus smiled back. “Speaking of that, Dai Atlas needs you to finalize some last-minute details about the ceremony. He requested you meet with him in his office. Do you know the way?”

Ratchet finally tore his optics away from Drift and gave Optimus a suspicious look. “Wouldn’t be trying to get rid of me, would you?”

Optimus chuckled softly. “Now why would I do that?”

“Uh huh. Not fooling anyone,  _my_ _friend,_ ” Ratchet said dryly. Drift held himself perfectly still and tried to look like he wasn’t bothered by this at all, but he had to force himself not to reach out and grab hold of him and beg  _please don’t abandon me!_ Still, something of that must’ve come through because Ratchet shook his head. “I think I should stay.”

But Drift would have to come to terms with his mate’s amica at some point, and it would be better to get it over with. He steeled himself and gave him what he hoped was a confident, relaxed smile. “It’s fine, Ratch. Go ahead. We’re good here,” he said, praying he wasn’t lying.

“Finished,” Sunstreaker announced before Ratchet could answer. The artist stood up and gave Drift a stern look. “Now don’t move or sit down for at least half an hour. This is temporary paint so I can’t seal it. It’ll smear until it’s dry and I’m pretty damn sick of redoing your lines, so be  _careful_ , will you?”

“Yes. Thank you, Sunstreaker. I’ll behave,” Drift said contritely as the artist gathered up his paints and brushes. He just grunted in acknowledgement and left as soon as he’d subspaced his supplies.

Ratchet still hadn’t looked away from Optimus. “What about you? You gonna behave, too?”

Optimus retracted his face shield once Sunstreaker was gone and smiled reassuringly. “Best behavior,” he promised.

“Uh huh,” Ratchet said again. He still didn’t look entirely convinced, but Drift nodded and Ratchet finally relented. But instead of leaving, he strode over to Drift and leaned in for a kiss.

“Wait, the paint!” Drift protested even though he wanted that kiss so damn bad he could taste it.

Ratchet stopped with a frustrated growl. “Not fair for you to be this sexy when I can’t even kiss you without getting gold all over me,” he grumbled.

“Make it up to you later,” Drift murmured, trying to speak softly enough that Optimus wouldn’t overhear. He caught Ratchet’s hand and rubbed his thumb along his index finger, a caress that he knew the medic would appreciate, and dropped his voice still further. “I’ll cover you in gold later. Promise.”

Ratchet shivered and raised his hand to his lips. “Gonna hold you to that,” he said against his plating, and when Drift winked and grinned, he sighed and finally released him to walk to the door.

But before he left, he paused and looked sternly back at Optimus. “No giving him the smelter talk while I’m gone.” Optimus started to protest but Ratchet held up a finger to cut him off. “No, save it.  _No smelter talk._  I don’t want you trying to scare off my mate, Pax.”

“Would he really be scared off so easily?” Optimus replied, and when Ratchet planted his hands on his hips and glared, he only grinned. “What kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t give your intended just a  _little_  slag on your bonding day? It’s my solemn duty, Ratchet.”

“Your solemn duty can get stuffed,” Ratchet growled. “Don’t do it. I’m serious.”

Optimus sighed and held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right, fine. Now go on, Dai Atlas really is waiting for you.”

The silence that fell when the door closed behind Ratchet was thick enough to stop a bullet. Drift tried his best not to fidget as Optimus stared down at him. He truly did not want to have to call Sunstreaker and tell him he’d smeared his paint. He waited for Optimus to speak, but he didn’t. He just…  _looked_  at him, and finally Drift had to break the tension before he choked on it.

“If I hurt him, you’re going to drag my broken, bleeding frame to the hottest smelter in the deepest, darkest corner of Cybertron where no one can hear my screams, throw me in, and sip the finest engex as I melt. Is that anything like what you were thinking of telling me?” he said, forcing himself to hold that calm, impassive gaze.

The corner of Optimus’ mouth quirked up in a smile. “Very nearly. Only it would be a warm smelter, just barely hot enough to melt metal. And it would not matter where that smelter was located. I would make sure your screams were heard throughout the whole of Cybertron.” He tapped his chin. “I hadn’t thought of the engex, though.”

Drift shuddered and tried to hide it. “Then I guess I should be pretty glad you didn’t give me the smelter talk, then, because that would’ve been terrifying,” he replied as evenly as he could.

Optimus laughed. “Well done,” he said approvingly, and Drift dared to relax a little.

When his laughter faded, the smile remained. It was strange, seeing the face beneath that ever-present mask. Without it, Optimus Prime was a surprisingly attractive mech, and he looked far younger than Drift knew he was. “I’ve never seen Ratchet this happy. He has loved you for a very long time,” Optimus said, startling him. Apparently it showed because he nodded as though Drift had denied it. “He has. Longer than I think even he realizes, but I saw it, just as I saw how you’ve looked at him all these years. All joking aside, I am glad that you’ve ended up together.”

Drift looked down at the gold adorning his frame, remembering the filth that had once coated him instead. He looked like a Victor and he had never felt more like an imposter. “You really wouldn’t rather see him with someone more… more worthy?” he asked quietly, because he couldn’t have possibly made a worse first impression on the enforcer who would go on to become Prime.

Optimus didn’t answer right away. When Drift raised his head again, he found Optimus looking thoughtfully at him. “Drift, do you know why I asked you to join my Vanguard despite the things in your history that should have disqualified you?” he asked. Drift flushed and lowered his optics in shame at the oblique reference to his past drug addiction, but Optimus went on without giving him a chance to answer the question. “It was more than just because you saved my amica’s life, and mine too. Don’t misunderstand--that was truly brave, and deserving of recognition and praise, but it was only a single moment, after all.”

“If not for that, then why?” Drift asked, because he’d had nothing else to recommend him beyond that one moment.

“Did you know that I kept tabs on you after Ratchet discharged you from his care?” Drift looked up sharply and Optimus nodded. “I did. Ratchet saw something special in you even then, and even though I didn’t understand what it was, I believed him. So I watched you through the years, and do you know what I saw?”

Drift looked away once more. “Nothing good,” he whispered, ashamed all over again at the reminder of the dismal past he’d tried so hard to leave behind. He had been in that alley for a reason, after all.

“Not true,” Optimus replied, surprising Drift enough that he looked up again. To his shock, the Prime was smiling at him. “I saw something I haven’t seen before or since. I watched a mech at his lowest possible point turn himself around. I watched you get clean and  _stay_ clean despite being surrounded by temptation. I watched you struggle to find honest work, and work hard once you did. I watched you fight your way out of the Dead End with nothing more than your own determination. I watched you prove Ratchet right, Drift.”

“All of that was because of Ratchet,” Drift said, embarrassed and more than a little confused. “I couldn’t have done any of that if not for him.”

“No,” Optimus disagreed firmly, and Drift was about to argue but the look in his optics stopped him. “No, Drift. Ratchet may have been your reason, but the struggle and the triumph are solely yours _._  So when you crossed my path again and I offered you a position in my Vanguard, it was because I already knew your character. I knew that there was no risk of your past addiction becoming a problem. I knew that you were brave, and faithful, and honest, and, yes,  _worthy_.” He reached out and put a hand on Drift’s shoulder, careful to avoid the paint. “It doesn’t matter where you were when we first met. The Dead End was nothing more than a starting point. What matters is where you went from there.” He smiled and spread his hands, that one gesture seeming to encompass the Victor’s paint and all that he had won, as well as the life he had worked so hard to build. “And look where you are now. I am eager to see how much further you will go from here.”

Drift felt cleanser welling up in his optics and blinked rapidly to clear it before it could run over and ruin the paint. Optimus was kind enough to step behind him and take his time picking up the cape of woven gold that Drift would wear during the closing ceremony of the Festival of Primus, granting him a moment to compose himself. When he had himself under control, Drift whispered, “Thank you.”

Optimus lifted the golden cape. Drift heard it rustle a moment before Optimus fastened it around his neck. “All that being said,” he murmured, “I meant it about throwing you in the smelter if you hurt him.”

Drift turned to face him and met his optics with no hesitation this time. “You won’t have to. If I hurt him, Prime, I will jump in myself.”

Optimus smiled. “Call me Pax.”

 

_**~ Fifty Vorns Later ~**_

 

The roar of the crowd was near-deafening, even all the way back here. Drift glanced at Ratchet and edged a little closer, instinctively putting his frame between the medic’s and the door. It was amazing how much the noise of thousands of wildly celebrating mecha could sound like a hungry beast. “I don’t remember it being so loud,” he said, half-shouting to make himself heard over the noise, and he didn’t. Honestly, he barely remembered the cheering at all.

Most of what he remembered from the moments after winning his own Race was watching Optimus Prime usher Ratchet away in one direction while the handlers herded him in another one, and Drift squeezed his mate’s hand tight now.

Ratchet laced their fingers together and squeezed back. “I had my audials offline for most of it,” he replied with a faint smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that hung over, not before or since.”

Drift snorted but didn’t have time to tease him before the big double-doors opened. Optimus Prime strode through with two mecha right on his heels, and he and Ratchet darted forward to intercept them before the Race officials could get their hands on them. Ratchet grabbed onto the exhausted and trembling red mech’s arm while Drift took hold of the enormous blue and grey mech beside him. Optimus stepped out of their way and _accidentally_  blocked a pair of outraged-looking handlers from accosting Ratchet and the new Victor.

Drift grinned as he tugged the huge mech aside. “Come over here with me, let’s find a little quiet while Ratchet takes a look at your mech there,” he urged with a gentle smile when he hesitated. “Breakdown, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Breakdown said, looking every bit as overwhelmed and spooked as Drift had felt fifty vorns ago when he’d been brought back here after his Race. “And you’re Drift, right? You won last time,” he added, but apart from a glance, his optics remained glued to the red mech who had just accepted a cube of energon from Ratchet.

“That’s me,” Drift replied with another smile. Breakdown didn’t see it. He couldn’t tear his optics away from his Victor. “Don’t worry about Knockout. Ratchet’s going to give him the absolute highest of care. He’s the very best medic on the planet.”

“Second best,” Breakdown said with automatic pride, and Drift chuckled as he remembered Ratchet telling him that Knockout was a medic when they’d watched Optimus announce him as the Victor.

“We’ll call it a tie, then,” Drift said easily. He sidestepped a minicon priest and pulled him into a relatively quiet crate-filled corner away from the worst of the chaos. He’d intended to take the Victor’s Prize to one of the backstage waiting rooms, but it was clear that Breakdown didn’t want to let Knockout out of his sight. “He’s in good hands, I promise.”

They watched Knockout finish the first cube of fuel and start on a second while Ratchet sent the first organizer brave enough to challenge him fleeing in terror. Drift couldn’t help grinning smugly.  _No one_  pushed his conjunx around, which was why they’d decided to let Ratchet grab the Victor while Drift intercepted their chosen mate. The fragging schedule was going to have to wait its damn turn this time around. “Congratulations, by the way. I hope this year is a very happy one for both of you.”

Breakdown sat down heavily on one of the crates. It creaked under his weight. “Look at him,” he said, and he didn’t sound very happy at all. “Really  _look._  Do you really think this could ever work out? That I could really make a mech like him happy?”

Drift looked over at Knockout. The red mech was beautiful, sleek and striking even when battered and filthy from the Race. It was a stark contrast to Breakdown's heavy-duty, no-nonsense frame, but Drift just shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what I think. He clearly thinks so or he wouldn’t have called your name,” he replied, and Breakdown shook his head. Drift pulled a cube from his subspace and held it out. “Here. You’re going to need your energy for the next few hours. Go ahead, take it,” he urged when Breakdown didn’t immediately do so.

The big mech finally accepted it and took a sip, then lowered it and stared into the glowing liquid like it held all the answers he lacked. “He’s famous, did you know that?” Breakdown said as though having something to do with his hands had unlocked his glossa. “He’s from Velocitron, where every sparkling wants to grow up to be a racer, and he wasn’t just good, he was a grand champion. There was an official day of mourning when he retired, can you imagine? And then he came to Cybertron to start a new career as a doctor, and he’s a slagging  _amazing_  one. He’s amazing at  _everything_  he does.” He finally raised his optics from his fuel and gave Drift a despairing look. “And me, Drift? I’m a bouncer at a club. I’m not handsome or fast or smart--I hit drunk fraggers for a living. What the  _pit_  was he thinking, calling my name?”

“Do you love him?” Drift asked.

Breakdown looked at him like he was stupid. “Of course I do, but that’s not the  _point!_  He can do so much better than me. He  _deserves_  so much better than me--he could have anyone!”

This was sounding very, very familiar. Drift sighed and sat down beside him. “You know what, Breakdown? You’re right,” he said, and the mech beside him jerked in astonishment. That was clearly not what he’d anticipated. “He could’ve called absolutely anyone’s name up there. He could’ve named a Senator or a racer or the fragging High Priest of Primus for that matter. But he called for _y_ _ou._ ”

Breakdown stared at him. “And you don’t find that completely insane?”

Drift laughed. “Of course it is! Since when is love sane?” he replied, and Breakdown actually cracked a smile at that for a moment. “Look, Breakdown, I can’t speak for Knockout, but I can tell you that when I entered the Race, it was because I loved Ratchet with every circuit in my frame and I would do anything to be able to proclaim it to the entire universe, and I had  _no_  idea what I was getting into. Your Knockout is a retired racer, so he knew exactly how hard this Race was going to be. And he did it anyway. He doesn’t need the fame or glory or riches--he’s got all of that already. The  _only_  reason for him to go through all this was so he could have a chance at getting to stand up on that Podium to proclaim your name before the entire universe.”

Breakdown’s optics were huge now and Drift reached up to squeeze his shoulder. “And you’re really going to sit there and tell me you don’t think you make him happy because, what, you’re not as pretty as he is? You don’t have a glamorous enough job? Come on, mech, do you think he’d have done this if he gave a flying  _frag_  about any of that?”

Breakdown finally looked away, his gaze going back over to Knockout. Drift looked over, too, and found the red mech looking worriedly back at them while Ratchet spoke to him. “Look at him. Really look,” he said softly, echoing Breakdown’s own words. “He loves you. It’s written all over his face, mech. No one could ever make him as happy as you can. You can let yourself believe it.”

Breakdown vented out shakily, then tossed back the rest of his fuel before standing up again. “Thank you, Drift,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was still fixed on Knockout. “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course,” he replied, and smiled as he watched the big mech walk over to the two doctors.

Ratchet greeted him and said a few words to him before patting Knockout on the shoulder and leaving the two of them alone. Drift couldn’t help but chuckle at the glare Ratchet shot the waiting handlers as they started to rush over. He planted his hands on his hips and growled, “You’re giving them five minutes alone before you go over there and I  _will_ be timing you. And I promise that you do not want to know what will happen if you move in early. Got that?” They backed off quickly enough to stumble and Ratchet nodded sharply in satisfaction.

Then he sat down beside Drift in the space Breakdown had just vacated. “How is he?” Drift asked, wrapping an arm around Ratchet’s waist as he remembered just how badly he’d been hurting by the end of his own Race and how furious Ratchet had been to discover that they’d skipped getting him seen by a medic to save time.

Ratchet draped his arm over Drift’s shoulders. “He’s fine--he’s built for that kind of romantic idiocy, unlike some mechanisms I could name,” he said, and Drift snorted. Ratchet’s lips quirked in a quickly-smothered smile before he went on. “Mostly he’s worried as frag that Breakdown’s planning to use this year to try to talk him out of this instead of accepting him. He said they’ve been lovers for years and he’s actually proposed to him several times, but Breakdown keeps saying that he’s not good enough for him. Now he’s got Knockout wondering if he really loves him at all. Did you give him a pep talk?” Drift nodded and Ratchet started to say something else, but broke off with a low whistle when Breakdown swept Knockout right off his feet and kissed him soundly. “Must’ve been some pep talk,” he said with some satisfaction.

Drift grinned and leaned against him. “Seems like it was effective, anyway,” he agreed. “He does love him, you know. He just needed a little help to believe that someone like Knockout could really love him back.” He glanced up at his mate. “I can relate to that.”

Ratchet kissed the top of his helm. “Well, he looks like he believes it now. Bet they change their minds about the year of courtship and decide to take the Rite at the end of the Festival like we did,” he said.

“Ha! No bet, that’s practically a given. In fact, it looks like they’re halfway to deciding to have a public claiming,” he laughed when Knockout wrapped himself all the way around his intended, arms and legs both, kissing him like neither of them needed air, and Ratchet chuckled. Then Drift nudged his shoulder with his chin, his voice turning teasing. “So, my love, do you still think those  _grand romantic gestures_  are stupid?”

“Yes.” Drift rolled his optics at the instant answer, but when Ratchet leaned down to kiss the tip of Drift’s nose, he was smiling. “But I suppose they occasionally have their uses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so that's my contribution to the Festival of the Five--am I the only one who gets sad when they finish a fic? Anyway, remember that the [Festival of the Five AU](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/The_Festival_Of_The_Five) is open to anyone who wants to write a fic for it! Thank you for reading!
> 
> (also, since my Muse didn't let me write the Dratchet wedding LIKE I INTENDED *glares at Muse* I wish to direct all of you to [this!](http://iopele.tumblr.com/post/130245180132/iopele-i-got-my-teensy-drift-from-sour-goji))


End file.
